


It's Not About Control

by jehanjetaime



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends With Benefits, Multi, Nonbinary Jehan, Recovery, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Enjolras, Trans Éponine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 61,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5238422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehanjetaime/pseuds/jehanjetaime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Message from Combeferre <3, 3:05<br/>"Jehan, Grantaire isn't feeling well. Gavroche found him passed out and barely breathing on the floor. He refused all professional help and would only see me or Joly. He is not in danger as far as I can tell but I suggest getting home as quickly as possible - he insisted on everyone leaving."</p>
<p>The idea of change is hard; imagining what could happen without change is even harder. Grantaire must learn what means the most to him before he can take a step towards the light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> ((Summary only temporary for now.)) Title from Bastille's "Oblivion."

"You frighten me, Grantaire," he tells me, watching from the doorway. No one remains in my sight but him, my Apollo, backlit from the hallway, shadow blending into the darkness of my apartment. I say nothing and he turns to whisper hurriedly to Combeferre, who is lurking in the hallway.

I raise my head as best I can and listen to them squabble only the way people who have known each other since infancy can. With only their tones, hushed sounds rising and falling, I know what they are saying. 'We cannot leave him here.' A wave of my hand; I scoff. "What's all this? Don't be ridiculous! Dear Jehan will be home and you won't have to worry about me."

I can feel his disdain, as mighty as the rest of him, as he tosses that hair from his face. That beautiful yellow; bless TYRP1, that allele which endlessly fascinates our Combeferre, our Joly, our me. Bless Melanesia, bless his parents for immigrating. His skin is dark, his hair is light, and despite all of D'Urville's speculating on the ugliness of the race, Enjolras is beautiful. He is enchanting. Of all of the countries in the world, France is lucky that he was born here. 

"We will never hear the end of it from Gavroche if we do that," Combeferre says in has calm voice. He sounds as buttercups look, mellow and warm and creamy. His knowing eyes gaze out at me as he steps around Enjolras, dark behind his black frames, under those thick locs that he can never keep tied up as he would like. "It was hard enough to get him to leave as it was."

Another wave of my hand. "Then don't tell him. As far as Gavroche is concerned, you both sat with me and sang lullabies until Jehan returned, then they made us all veggie dogs and nothing is amiss." He would never believe it, my little apprentice, he is much too smart, and even if I did not know that, the looks these two give me would let me know. "Fine, " I say in a great show of acquiescence - or as great as I can manage, laying on my couch and nearly pinned down by not only Jehan's massive cat Oscar but my own boxer, who is perched on my feet as if to tell me 'You're not going anywhere.' Hoisted by my own Cheese Curd. "Omit the lullabies, then. But leave the veggie dogs."

They share a look, the one that infuriates Courfeyrac, and I fear I will have to fight for the right to wallow alone. But they go, leaving me covered in animals and lit by a marathon of How It's Made. There is a milk jug full of water next to me, complete with bendy straw, that Combeferre insists I finish. I intend to - the guide says that the next episode covers canned onions and I am eager to see how they go from ground to can, but before one bulb is plucked or long, swirling sip of water is taken, I am long gone, gone to a hard day and heavy eyelids.


	2. Ch. 1

New Message from Combeferre <3, 3:05pm  
'Jehan, Grantaire isn't feeling well. Gavroche found him passed out and barely breathing on the floor. He refused all professional help and would only see me or Joly. He is not in danger as far as I can tell but I suggest getting home as quickly as possible - he insisted on everyone leaving."  
____________________________

I wake to light and sound and Oscar thumping to the ground, meowing loudly and insistently. That can only mean that Jehan is home, returned to our little apartment. With bleary eyes, I look at the clock. 4:15pm. They're home almost two hours early; someone's told them. I shut my eyes and make no noise at first, hoping to avoid the uncomfortable conversation for as long as possible. I can't stand the idea of Jehan's eyes pooling under their glasses, their entire soft, freckled face falling as I recount what I remember and what I've been told of the last 7 or so hours. So I feign sleep until they approach me, smelling of carnations and lilac and roses after a shortened shift at the flower shop they love so much. I hear them step close, hear their soft sigh, and my heart breaks for what I have done to them, what I will continue to do to them. "Grantaire?"

"Yes, yes, I'm here," I mumble, opening my eyes. They must be bloodshot - either that or I have lost what little looks I had since this morning - for they gasp. I reach up to pat their hand, and try to sit, but the motion sets my empty stomach spinning. 

It must show, for Jehan shakes their head and gently pushes me back onto the couch. Their eyes start to the water. "Drink your water," they say, tapping the jug with a loafer. "And I'll make something to eat."

"Veggie dogs?"

They shoot down my suggestion with a withering glance that is surprising from such a mousy looking person. "Soup," they say before returning to the kitchen. There goes my hope of the day turning around, I think. I hear the sadly familiar sound of Jehan gathering my bottles from the kitchen; this is not the first time that they have done this. But this IS the first time I hear not just empty bottles, but liquid sloshing. Caps snapping. Corks popping. Tops unscrewing. And more liquid, this time pouring. Pouring down the sink. Despite my lurching stomach, I pull myself to my feet (after yanking them free of Cheese Curd) and stumble to the kitchen. I stand in the doorway, watching them pour a fortune in green and red and amber gold down the drain without even the water running to mask neither scent nor sound. "I thought that you were making soup."

No answer. They just grab another bottle and slam it down into the sink. The brittle neck shatters and I praise whoever is listening that they were holding the thing by the body. They don't rush to clean the broken glass or the wine, expensive wine, or even dab the blood from a small cut I can see forming on their hand. They stand, solidly, silently, staring at the plants above the sink, the hanging pots and pans grazing herbs and leaves. And to be honest, I'm frightened. When Jehan is angry, truly angry, they are something to behold. But then their shoulders shake and I realize that it is not with anger but with sorrow. "Y-you said that you would be careful."

"Jehan..Jean..."

"You SAID that you would be CAREFUL! You said that you had a handle on this, that it wasn't that BAD, that you..." They whip around and thump an open hand against my chest. Despite how thick their voice is with tears, I am surprised to see a wet, red face. Their tortured expression is all I see, all I am. I barely register a second thump, but I notice when that hand curls into my hoodie - no, it's not mine. Paris- Sud is scrawled across my chest, and it smells slightly of mothballs. This is Combeferre's hoodie that Jehan is digging their nails, crescented with dirt, into, that Jehan is wrinkling as they mold their delicate hand into a hardened fist. And then their hair, long, a warm, chestnutty red, is all I can see. They have their forehead pressed to my collarbone, and their weeping is so heartbreaking that I can do nothing but wrap them in my arms. "Even your embrace has weakened."

"Forgive me, Jehan." They tremble against me, as they did when Oscar was at the vet's, as they did that night they were mugged, as they did after every single beauty broke their heart, as they did after every tragedy in the world. Only this time they are trembling for me, out of love for me. We are not a couple; we never have been and we never need to be. We are strong enough, close enough, without the romance. Jehan has their many flings, but I know that it is the owner of the hoodie warming me that their heart beats for. Not that they would confess - at least not yet. That poem has yet to be composed. And everyone in Paris knows who I follow. There is no doubt that Jehan and I are soulmates, only of a different caliber. We are both romantics at heart; no romance needs to exist between us. There is no room. "I...I don't know. Things got carried away. Out of hand. I was too much, I drank too much."

They finally curl their arm about me, cupping a wobbly hand around my shoulder blade. "Gavroche found you." My whispered 'I know' goes either unheard or unheeded. "Gavroche, of all people, found you on the floor in a pool of your own vomit. Barely breathing."

"You've been talking to Combeferre," I offer.

"Damn right I have!" The curse from their lips surprises them as much as it does me, I think, but they power on. "He texted me , and I called on the way home. He told me everything." Their face remains buried against me, voice muffled through fabric and hair. "Gavroche worships the very ground you walk on and he had to see you like that. Don't you think hes seen enough debauchery for one life time?”

That hadn't occurred to me, and that fact alone angers me. "Then we'll take away his key, is that what you want?" He and Éponine had both been given one, back when things were still ugly, their parents still in the picture. But once she hit eighteen and was granted custody of Gavroche, Éponine had given hers back despite protests. Gavroche had kept his.

"Take it away?" They pull away now, the fire in their eyes blazing. "Take it AWAY?! Why would I do that? Someone needs to watch you, apparently, and if that has to be a 12 year old boy then I will NOT block his access to you." Then their lips wobble and they throw their arms around me again. "I'm scared, Grantaire."

_"You frighten me, Grantaire."_ His golden voice echoes in me, mingling and copulating with Jehan's whimper. I scare them. Frighten them. Something inside of me tells me I should just leave, remove myself from their lives and provide relief for all of them. But I smell Jehan's shampoo, think of the face Enjolras makes when he's trying not to laugh at one of my jokes, and I know that I never could. I couldn't leave Gavroche and Éponine, I could not walk down the street knowing I wouldn't run into Chetta and see what colour her hair is that day, wouldn't see Joly and make him laugh by carrying him across the street, wouldn't find Bousset in some jam and weasel a way of it with him. Life without my friends is nothing at all. I cannot leave them, as selfish as it is. 

I pet their hair, then push them gently away by the shoulders. I bend down and kiss them softly on the corner of the mouth. "There is nothing to be frightened of. Here, let me show you." It destroys me absolutely to take my beloved bottles and dump their contents down the drain, but the hopeful delight on Jehan's face makes it a little easier to empty every one. I clean off their hand, bandage it with a Hello Kitty bandaid, and kiss the top of the bandaid.

I am unsurprised to find them in my room that night. They had me eat dinner, drink water, and that left me famished. My ravenous appetite seemed to please them, for I did get my veggie dogs that night. And a warm body in my bed. We had shared a bed many times before that, both chastely and not so much. As I said, we were never lovers in the romantic sense, more the classical sense. Our bodies let us bond, and as they move with me that night, warm and soft and fragrant, their tattooed thighs straddling my waist, I know that I have to do something. Their soft cries in my ear are both pleasure and pleading and offering and need, a great need. Need for me, for me to be well. I don't know how to be well, but in that moment, my best friend moving on top of me as I could see the pleasure swell with the red of their cheeks, I know that I will do my damnedest to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It means a lot!


	3. Ch. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapters from here on out should be a little longer!

That morning I wake up under Jehan to hear a familiar fluttering around the kitchen. Gavroche has invited himself over for breakfast. I realize that I'm ravenous, still, and I inch myself out from under Jehan to change from grey sweatpants to blue, just as worn and comfortable. A quick brush of my teeth and I move out to the kitchen. Before I even see him, Gavroche has his still too thin arms locked around my middle. I yawn and pat his head. "I'm alright." He still clings to me, and that this young boy who has been through so much can still weep (while trying to hide it) for me is touching. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Pancakes," he says, pulling away to hide his face, as well as to get the mix Jehan ordered from some foodie packaging service or another. "You sit!" I chuckle and pull out my phone as I comply. Two texts, the first from Enjolras, which still makes my heart skip a beat. "Text me when you wake up." In response, I just send him a picture of Gavroche at the oven. The same picture is my response to Éponine, who sent the other text asking if her brother arrived. We only live a couple blocks away, but she's always on high alert. Not that I can blame her; she's done a lot to save her family, IS doing a lot. But Gavroche can take care of himself, and apparently me too. He's silent as he works this time, which is odd. He is either mad or scared. Maybe both. For the hundredth time I curse myself for letting HIM find me. I let him cook and soon enough Jehan comes down the hallway in their hideous bathrobe - they must have stopped in their own room. 

They greet both of us with a kiss on the forehead. "Are we being treated this morning?" they ask, grabbing up the ancient teapot and heading to the sink. "Gavroche's famous pancakes?" That makes Gavroche smile, which in turn pleases me. "I remember the first time you made us those, or tried. Grantaire was all bloody knuckled from that match, I was sick, and sweet little Gavroche, no older than seven, came over to feed us." They pinch his flushed cheek and he whines for them to stop, batting that fluttering hand away.

"But they didn't come out right. Or at all!" I say with a laugh, which aggravates my tired abdomen. But I don't care, it's a jolly feeling just to laugh. "Hard as a rock, stuck to the pan! We had to throw them out, pan included!" Jehan laughs and even Gavroche chuckles sheepishly. it's almost as if nothing had changed, as if yesterday Gavroche had not found me just where he stands now, laying on the floor in nothing but a pair of jeans (that I realize now I was not wearing when I woke; someone must have changed me and I hope that it was Combeferre) and in a puddle of my own vomit. Bless this little child. This young man, I should say. Despite Éponine's best intents, I don't think our Gavroche has ever been a child in the truest sense of the word. Perhaps that is why we get along so well; even at age 28 I am the child that he never got to be. As he brings over the pancakes, I loop an arm around him and give him a kiss on the cheek, just loud and intense enough that his reaction - "Gross! Grantaire! Bleuugh!" - is enough to take some levity away from the situation that I know is on everyone's mind. But I know that none of the feeling was lost.

I walk him home to the small apartment he shares with Éponine and whatever small animal he is currently trying to wheedle his sister into letting him keep as a pet this month. As of now, I believe that it is a tarantula, and she doesn't stand for bugs. He wants a dog more than anything, and Éponine blames that solely on me and my day job. But what better for someone like me than dog walker? I enjoy the time out doors, the time spent with dogs who like to play (unlike Cheese Curd, who likes to nap) and the freedom it offers me. Plus, I look rather dashing with three dogs on each hand, if I may say so myself. Sometimes, if it's not a school day or he's skipping, Gavroche comes along and helps me. He always wants to walk the biggest dog I have, too. But today, even being Sunday, he'll be staying home. I need some time to myself. I rarely allow for introspection, but once he is safe in Éponine's care for the morning, and I've gathered my dogs for the first walk, I find time to think. First about the dogs - my Sunday crowd is mostly for older or disabled people who find it hard to walk their furry companions. I try to avoid walking dogs for anybody if they're able and home. It's the weekend and a dog's owner is their world. Spend time with your pup! I'm with Cheese Curd as much as possible, and even bring him out on some walks with the other dogs; he enjoys time spent with anyone other than Oscar, who is his constant companion and loves nothing more than lying on his face.

Cheese Curd brings up a completely new reason that I feel bad for letting myself get to that point the other night - he's my rescue dog, and he needs me. Not even Jehan knows him like I do. I can't just risk myself with him relying on me. Anyone else, I think, could move past something happening to me. But not Cheese Curd. I know I need to be careful. I do. But by the time I'm far gone enough to be in danger, I'm too far gone to care. Or gone enough to care too much. I can't say what happened Friday night, because anything after a dinner of pizza rolls at 9 pm is a complete blur to me. I know that Jehan is sitting at home right now, thinking, worrying, and I know more than anything they'll just be upset that I ate something like frozen pizza rolls for dinner. I can see them taking out the garbage, sighing at the box in the recyclables. 'There's not even real food in these,' they say, shaking their head. They mutter about me all the way down the hall. My sweet roommate. We didn't know each other at all when they answered my ad looking for a roommate, and when they moved in I wasn't sure if we would get along, but one homemade dinner and a movie marathon later, I knew that my first impression had been very wrong. we became fast friends, then soulmates, and when we started sharing our bodies with each other I can't even say, except that there has never been an ounce of discomfort between us because of it. If they find a serious lover who is uncomfortable with it, we stop, and were I ever to settle down, the same would happen. But for now, we are just, in Courfeyrac's terms, 'friends with benefits.' I don't know how he knew. neither of us ever told him, preferring to keep it as private as the sessions themselves, but Courfeyrac can always tell that sort of thing. He was the one who could tell when Bahorel's girlfriend had finally kissed him, when Chetta was pregnant (and when she suddenly, no longer, was), and even when Combeferre had finally decided to see if he was truly as sex-repulsed as he thought (he is). There's just something about the guy.

Too bad his powers don't extend beyond sex - I would love to have him look inside me and see what was in there.

I pull out my phone with a sigh after I drop off the last dog. It's been going off repeatedly during the walk, but my hands were rather full. When I finally take a glance, I am both completely AND completely not surprised to see I have exactly nine texts. Well, I would have pinned it at eight, but since when have gods behaved as human thought they would? Apollo himself was the first, in response to my picture of Gavroche with a quick "Good." Jehan asking if I'm okay. Combeferre hoping I'm alright, asking if I need anything. Then everybody else, obviously filled in rather quickly and very much without my help. Courfeyrac with a link to what I know is one of five YouTube videos that crack me up every time. Chetta with a picture of herself blowing me a kiss, background of books so she must be at work. Joly with links to lists helpful home remedies, Bousset telling me to just hang in there. Éponine to both Jehan and myself, telling us to come over for dinner tomorrow. Bahorel's thumbs up emoji followed by a smiley face. Then, just as I go to put my phone away, another buzz, from Marius, who we have not seen much of lately with this new lady that's captured every bit of his attention. She's a fine girl, too pretty and too smart for the likes of Marius, and I'm sure that we would all like her very much, if they could ever pull their tongues out of each others mouths long enough to hold on a conversation. I save each text, even the link to what turns out to be the most recent song from The Lonely Island, who I consider the finest musicians of their generation. 

Even though I'm older than the rest, save Musichetta who is exactly one month my senior and never lets me forget it, I know that my friends are loyal and good. They come to my boxing matches, they keep me company, and they obviously take care of me. I could never hope for a better group. Which is why I send out a group text with a simple thanks and a promise that I'm doing fine.

Jehan is still in their pajamas when I get home, with lunch picked up from our favourite Thai restaurant. We settle on the couch, them with their spicy eggplant and me loaded up on Hoi Pik Pow, with a large container of Tom Ka Hed to share between us. We're quiet for a little, but I can feel them watching me, wondering. Finally I sigh. “Yes, Jehan?”

“...what happened?”

I look over to their curious face, cilantro stuck to their bottom lip. Their eyes are magnified by their glasses and I cannot resist them. “Nothing happened, I promise. I was just drinking.” I take another bite but do not take my eyes off of them; I can tell they don't believe me. “I just had a beer with dinner, that's it. And then I was watching videos on my phone, drinking, drinking. There was no reason for it.”

They sigh. “People don't black out drink alone just for no reason, Grantaire. It's not...it's not...”

“Normal? I hate to break your heart, pudding, but nothing about me is normal. But listen, you don't...understand it. When you're like me-”

“An alcoholic.”

“When you're like me,” I start again, ignoring their words, “you don't drink for a reason. It's not for fun, it's not not calming or joy-inducing. It's numbing, at least for me. It's just what I do. It's like breathing. You don't just think 'I'm going to get blazing drunk and make a pillow out of my last meal,' you just have a drink and another drink and then you're two bottles in and you don't know who you are anymore.” I don't know how it is for other imbibers, but that is how it is for me, so nothing else matters in this moment. I'm not here for any great movement, I'm not here to represent all drunks. I just know how things are for me.

That doesn't seem to comfort Jehan, though. They push their food around, looking down. “I was wondering if it was maybe...” They flop around their spoon, and shift their eyes to the wall. They're thinking of Enjolras, thinking of Combeferre, thinking of the only thing this romantic person can summon as a reason to drink yourself into a stupor – heartbreak.

I shake my head. “No, it's not him. I told you. There's no one reason.”

“That's scary.” There's that word again, that feeling. “If...if there wasn't a specific reason, then...what's stopping it from happening again?”

I have to whisper “nothing,” into my clams.

They nod. Then fall silent. I am glad for it. Their questions do not bother me, but the answers that I have to give them, obviously unsatisfying, do. I want to soothe them, calm them, but nothing I can offer is good enough. 

“If he loved you back...would it help?”

I chuckle and tun my eyes towards the stucco ceiling. “I don't know. Maybe a little. But it wouldn't end my...drinking. That is something even he cannot do. He can't end it. You can't. Gavroche can't. I'm the only one that can.”

And as they squeeze my hand, I know that they at least know that I am telling the truth, even if they don't like the answer.

\---------------------------------  
New Message from Jehan, 11:19pm  
-“Can you do me a favour?"

New Message from Combeferre <3, 11:21pm  
\--“What is it?”

New Message from Jehan, 11:21pm  
-“Maybe just drop in on Grantaire tomorrow? He has some walks  
in the morning but nothing after that.”

New Message from Combeferre <3, 11:23pm  
\--“Sure, I can stop by before my last class. How is he?”

New Message from Jehan, 11:23pm  
-“Thank you so much. He's alright, I think. We talked a little.  
I called him an alcoholic and he didn't get mad at me this time.”

New Message from Combeferre <3, 11:26pm  
\--“Well, that's progress I suppose. Don't work yourself up  
over him; make sure you get some sleep and take care  
of yourself, too.”

New Message from Jehan, 11:27pm  
-“Sure, Mr. Up For 48 Hours At Least Once A Week. I'll get some  
sleep when you do.”

\-----  
I get up and walk my dogs, Cheese Curd included for the first go around, then return to the apartment for lunch. I'll have to clean up and do our laundry, but that can wait until I eat. That's my usual schedule for Mondays, when I don't have as many walks to do. Tuesday – Friday is busier, and then a lot of Thursday, Friday, or Saturday nights I have matches at a not exactly legal boxing ring, and that's where I make my real money. Dog walking barely brings in anything, and I can make double what I make in two days of that with one win. Sometimes, despite Jehan's protests, Courfeyrac and Bahorel (and sometimes Chetta) often make bets on me, and if I turn out victorious, some of their winnings go to me. Occasionally, Jehan and I struggle to make ends meet, and they like to help. Of course, nearly all of us struggle, but the goodness of friends shouldn't be measured in money. I do pay them back, in dinners, in booze, in late night adventures. Not that it matters. 

A quick lunch leaves me nothing else to do but hop into the shower. I'm finally feeling better, back to myself, and I sing a little song as I lather and rinse. It's a warm spring day, one of the first of the season, and I open the window just enough for Oscar to squeeze into the space. He likes to watch the birds, and even though his furry body blocks any breeze from coming in I would not deny him his entertainment. I run a towel through my hair, which could use a trim, and whistle the tune I had been singing in the shower. Cheese Curd follows me as I wander to my room and pull on my jeans. Before I can grab my shirt, however, there's a buzzing from our intercom. I go to answer it, and the woman at the desk tells me I have a visitor. I am nearly bowled over when she says, “Lucien Enjolras.” And, of course, I let him up.

His stern face never seems to belong in our apartment, and I marvel at that as he sits not on the couch with me, but perched on the clothes covered armchair. He looks me over and I offer him a dashing smile. “Finally appreciating me for my beauty, Apollo?”

“I've told you not to call me that.” He doesn't relax against the back of the chair; he never does. Only a few times have seen him do so, and the vision is so vulnerable that it nearly hurts me to behold. Now, however, he is as stiff as always, and I wonder how knotted and rough his back must be; to touch it must be to stroke marble. I doubt the man relaxes even in sleep. “And put a shirt on, will you?”

It is only out of respect for his dysphoria that I pull Combeferre's hoodie back on. It was a long time ago that Jehan mentioned to me a passing statement from Enjolras than sometimes even seeing a cis male's chest could make him uncomfortable, but since he has yet to do anything surgical to his body I still keep it in mind. “So, what brings me this great honour?”

Enjolras gives me his patented Withering Glare™ and pulls his long curls up into a bun on the top of his head. “Combeferre was going to come, but he had a TA emergency so he asked me to come in his place. You're breathing, I see.”

“More clearly now that you are here,” I say, a hand pressed to my chest. He just rolls his eyes. “I live, I promise. No need for concern.” I wonder, I can't help but, if Enjolras came only because Combeferre asked, or if there was some personal curiosity involved, or even, maybe, some concern of his own. I will never ask, not if I want to hold onto my tiny glimmer of hope.

“As I can see.” Another pause, more silence. Enjolras watches me and I can make nothing out of the emotion – or lack of – in his beautiful eyes. I can never read anything from him. I suppose living with Jehan, who is nothing if not an open book, has put my skills in reading people into disuse. Still, even the finest masters of literature would not be able to comprehend the meaning behind the words of Lucien Enjolras' skin, his hands, his hair, his lashes. He is an enigma past any mystery the word dredges up in the human mind. And mystery just happens to be my favourite genre. I am so lost in him that I do not notice him speaking until my name comes from his lips, sharp and snapped as if this is not the first time he has said it in an attempt to garner my attention. I blink drowsily, and he huffs when I ask him to repeat himself, but continues. “I said, will you be alright until Jehan gets home?”

I know that he only asks for their sake, for Combeferre's, but the words still dig their way into my very marrow, where they mix with myelocytes and normoblasts until they become all that I am. “Yes, my great caregiver, I will live thanks to the enormous warmth of your heart in paying me such a considerate call.” I look at the clock on the wall, some hideous bird shaped thing left over from Jehan's chicken phase. “Shouldn't you be in class right now?”

“Why do you know my schedule?” he asks. “If you knew enough, you would be well aware that I have a joke of an Immigration class right now.” And then I remember him complaining of his professor for that class and their outdated views on racial tensions between unnaturalized immigrants of colour and the white people in authority in most Western cultures. 

“If you keep skipping these classes, you'll never graduate,” I say knowingly. “You'll be like me, with nothing but my le bac behind me and no desire for anything else!”

I can see him rile, and I wish it were for me and not my dismissal of le bac. And, sure enough, he just shakes his head. “You know as well as I do that there is nothing wrong with le bac, and-”

“I know, I know, the failing education system and the unfair bias against those who not afford to go on to higher education for one financial reasons or other obligations and the idea of academia being the only measure of intelligence is ridiculous, I have heard it all.” I wave my hand at him and I see that fire in him – he wants to debate, yet I am doing nothing but agreeing with him, and I think that leaves him stunned.

However, he leans his elbow on his knees. “...you really do listen to me, don't you?”

“My friend,” I say, searching in hid eyes for things I cannot name and will never find, “You have no idea.”

Then the moment is past, gone to the moments of yesteryear. “Well, either way I was not attending the class, so I said I would stop in on my way to Musain. Now I must get on, I DO have things to do today.” Enjolras stands and shoulders his bag. 

I wait until he has said goodbye and is headed for the door before I scramble up. “Wait. Let me put on a some shoes, I'll walk you to the Métro. I have to go out anyways.” He huffs, but turns and waits. I move as quickly as I can to slip my sneakers on, grab my wallet and keys. I chase him down the stairs, laughing and joking for five floors, watching him - as always, a couple steps ahead of me, and no matter how I trip and fly down the steps, I just cannot catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Ch. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Joly and Feuilly! It's been a long time since I've written fic for Les Mis, so every time I bring in another character, I get all giddy, like I'm seeing an old friend after a long time apart.

My bags back home rattle, more glass in there than I would like to admit to Jehan. I don't want to hide my bottles from them, but I will if only to give them hope. I repeat it over and over in my mind as I walk home. It is not out of shame. I'm just helping them. It is not out of shame. I'm just helping them. I had put away everything and just started laundry when my phone went off. Holding it to my ear with my shoulder, I pipe, "R's Mortuary - you stab'em, we slab'em!"

"Grantaire," Éponine sighs. Her voice is breathy and controlled, but I know she finds me funny. "Are you and Jehan still coming over dinner?"

"Of course we are. In fact, I'm making a cake for dessert the moment I'm done with laundry."

"You know you don't have to bring anything. Just that shining personality. And Gavroche was begging me to ask you to bring Cheese Curd." The affection in her voice is sweet; I wish there wasn't so much exhaustion behind it. The poor girl works her fingers to the bone to keep herself and her brother in house and home, as well as saving up to hire a private investigator - her sister and youngest brothers ran away before they were pulled from those monsters they call parents, and I know that she is desperate to find them. She's putting off school to save up, as well as her transition - though I think that she is doing that more to fly safely under the watchful eye of the courts. She doesn't want to give them any reason to take Gavroche away from her, with how closely they watch her after all of the trouble. 

I promise her to bring Cheese Curd before we hang up. The laundry safely in two washers, I drudge back up the stairs. "Well, Cheese, what sort of cake should I make?" I ask him. He just lolls his tongue out. Cheese Curd has never been much of a conversationalist. "Do you think a rum cake would be funny? I don't know if Jehan would appreciate the humor." And if I did that, they'd know I have rum. So my joke shall go untold. I start up something chocolate instead, chocolate and simple. I like to bake. Nothing fancy, not like the cooking shows I watch late at night, binging on Gordon Ramsey and booze. But my creations still taste fine no matter how the look on they outside. It's nearly mechanical: stir, stir, sip of the glass I hardly notice I pour from one of the bottles under my bed. It's just a part of baking for me, a part of anything. Part of everything. One glass won't kill me, won't push me over the edge. At least not WINE. I might as well be drinking Juicy Juice to wash down my aminal cwackers before going nap-nap. 

The kitchen soon smells like chocolate joy, and I can retire to the couch with a second glass of wine, and the bottle on the end table, to wait for the laundry.

When I wake up, it's dark. The lights and TV, which were on, are off, and only Cheese Curd is draped into my lap. Once he senses I'm awake, he licks my hands and nuzzles that stubby face into my stomach. I give him a gentle petting as I notice voices. Jehan's, clearly. A glance at the clock - 6:17 pm. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. But someone else is here...Joly. Extra shit. 

"I just don't know what to do," I hear Jehan say. There's some sort of sound and I realize that the whole place smells like burning. The oven door creaks open. Oh - the cake. The cake I put in the oven nearly five hours ago. I feel like 100% pure ass, and it is not the effects of the alcohol.

"You called me,” Joly offers. He's a good friend and human being. Some may find his idiosyncrasies irritating, but I think he's charming. Though his advancement through medical school, leaving him in his first year, has convinced him that he has more diseases than I believe even exist on the human spectrum, he also uses his growing knowledge to help us "as a preliminary, " he says, to proper medical care. Between his studying, his volunteering at the local free sexual health clinic, and his part time job at his campus health center, we don't see him as much as we like. And that makes me nervous. Jehan was concerned enough about me to call Joly over. He did not even use me as an excuse to see Combeferre. "That's doing something. I mean, I'm not a doctor yet, but you called the only medical help he'll accept."

Jehan sighs and I hear the clacking of Joly's cane, then the sound of him leaning it against something. He grunts a little and Jehan tells him to get off the floor. Joly makes a noncommittal whine that he only makes to brush us off when we worry over his leg. It never healed right after that crash, and it had always been weak before that. He tells us that it's more important to worry about whichever disease is 'plaguing the nation' that week. "Fine, Jehan says quietly. There's a grating, unpleasant scrubbing sound. Steel wool on metal. My cake must have exploded or boiled over, or something of the sort. Jehan makes a soft sound. "Joly. What if...that's part of the problem? I've stopped trying to convince him to get real medical help when he needs it. I know what he wants, but what if what he wants isn't what's...best for him?"

More scrubbing. "Un...unless he's in serious danger, that's a choice you can't make for him. If he's in a bad way and gets taken to the hospital, he runs the risk of detox and rehab. If he's not mentally or emotionally prepared for that, it won't help him in the long run and can even cause adverse effects. Some disagree with me, but I know that if an addict isn't ready to change, forced help is not what's best for them. Generally, of course."

An addict. The word cuts me to the bone. An addict. Grantaire the addict. That's how they think of me. I don't know about that. Addict, alcoholic. Those are words for someone else. For my long dead parents. But not for me. I'm a boxer. A dog walker. An artist, when the mood strikes me. I can't stand the idea. I just have a. Minor compulsion towards drinking, is all. 

For the past 10 years. It has never been as heavy as it's gotten in the past couple years, but this, whatever it is, has been going on since I my late teens. I drank before that, of course, but only a beer here or there or at grantedly frequent parties and visits to bars.

" - self medicating," Joly finishes saying, snapping me out of my reverie. "It's common amongst addicts, they have an undiagnosed or unmedicated mental illness - depression, PTSD, what have you - and what they're suffering through drives them to find an escape. Eventually the drugs or the booze stops being an escape and becomes a full force addiction, something they cant and don't want to live without." I curse Joly's mental health degree as well as his medical training. He, of all people, thinks I could have a mental problem? The man who had a cough for one day and thought he has going to die of tuberculosis might not be the best person to give out unwarranted diagnoses. For a moment, I think that he's wasting his time in medical school since he obviously has no clue what he's talking about and just goes around making vast assumptions. But then the guilt sets in. I'm only thinking these things out of hurt. I'm not some experiment to him; he's my friend. He just worries about me. Didn't he come over here, after all?

"I just wish I knew if I was helping. He needs help. D...deserves it." They sound stressed, unbearably so. And when they start to cry, I wish that I was brave enough to just walk away from them all. It's the best thing I could do for everybody. And Jehan, sweet Jehan, wouldn't have to sit on the kitchen floor crying over me. They wouldn't feel like they had to come home to check on me, feel like they couldn't go out on their own without having to bring me or send someone to babysit me. They could concentrate on their poetry, on their window boxes, on getting clueless Combeferre to look at them the way they deserve to be looked at.

"I just worry about him s-so much..."

I can't help myself. It doesn't matter if they find out I was eavesdropping; I ignore my protesting head and body to push myself off of the couch. I brush into the kitchen and they both look up at me in surprise. Before either can open their mouth, I drop down next to Jehan, acrid scent from the open oven burning my nostrils, and bring them close to me. I wrap them in my arms and look over to Joly. His eyes are sad too, under eyebrows bushy enough to give mine a run for their money. I apologize to both of them, and Joly just shakes his head. "It's okay, Grantaire."

I know it's not, but I don't fight him. Jehan looks up at me, hair a mess and glasses askew. "I should be the one comforting y-you..." 

"Don't worry about that, Jehan. Just don't. Why don't you two sit up at the table? I'll finish this." The inside of the oven is a chocolaty mess. What exactly happened in there? Jehan tries to fight me on it, but Joly catches their eye and shakes his head again. Jehan sighs but stands up, and helps Joly back to his feet.

Jehan's eyes are red, but the tears seem to be gone. It occurs to me that maybe they're pretending to be strong for my benefit, and that makes me want to slam my head in the oven door. "I'll order in some food, then," they say over the sound of the rushing water. Joly is washing his hands for the first time. He'll wash them twice more before sitting down again, he always does. "Joly, stay for dinner."

He does, of course he does, that great man. We sit in the living room to eat, my phone in my lap after texting an apology to Éponine and Gavroche. Jehan said that he already had called them and made excuses, but they're no idiots. Talk turns their meeting tomorrow, what started as a few social justice minded friends meeting at a coffee shop once in a while and turned into a sociopolitical activism group that was granted use of a back room in the coffee shop one night a week for their meetings. They stage protests, do charity work, write petitions and letters to local and national government, and any other good deeds they conjure up. On one wall is a large whiteboard with their name scrawled across the top - Les Amis, followed by #LibertéÉgalitéFraternité, which is even on the t-shirts Courfeyrac had printed up. Enjolras insists they wear them to events, and as their elected leader, everyone does as he says. The shirt is really just the icing on the cake of Why I Don't Go. I attend meetings, yes, but I have no belief in this change they all seem to fight for. This world's a shithole and a few young people with a hashtag aren't going to change that. But I do believe in their belief, I believe in their passion. I believe in Enjolras. I believe in him with so much heart that some of it must be someone else's. He is a true leader and I find so much joy in watching him work. And, I must admit, in antagonizing him. I love to argue, to debate, and I get a sense that he does too. Plus, I was friends with Courfeyrac first (as almost everyone else seemed to be, too – Courfeyrac knows every person in France, it seems) and he was a founding member, then when Jehan met them through me, they joined up, and soon enough they all became my friends. It is nice just to be with them, even if I just sit in the corner and sketch them as they plot and plan and work towards a better tomorrow. They are younger than me, but never by much, and as I have said before, I've never been very mature. They are good people.

"Enjolras came to visit today," I say. They both turn, share a look, and I point my fork at them. "Enough of that. He just came to check up on me, thanks to someone asking Combeferre to do so.”

“Don't give me that.” Jehan looks haughty, and I wish Combeferre was here to see them. Indignation makes them glow, makes them look even more beautiful. 

I roll my eyes, fully intending on giving then that. I have to ween these people off of babysitting me. “I walked him to the train before he left and everything.” I can see the unasked question in Jehan's eyes. Is that why you were drinking? They still don't believe me. Enjolras is not why I drink; after all, I drank before him, didn't I? Yes, sometimes his cold treatment hurts, but I was going to drink with or without him. Was that admitting something? No. It was just the truth.

Joly sighs. “He's been up since 4, you know. I was up early too and saw him on his way to school. He said that he couldn't sleep. I hope he's not falling ill.” His face spoke otherwise. For such a hypochondriac, Joly loves when there's someone sick to take care of. The week when both Chetta AND Bousset had the flu was probably the best time of his life – both of his loved ones needing his care. Chetta vowed to never get sick again after that. 

“Just like Apollo – up to see the sunrise and drag it across the sky.” My voice is too dreamy for my liking, but I chalk it up to the roughness of the day. But he is Apollo, my very sun. Even his disdain brightens my very world. “You know that he never sleeps anyways, Joly.”

He smiles, round cheeks crinkling near his eyes. “No, he doesn't. You are very right about that.” It is well known that Enjolras is late to bed, early to rise. Unless he is at the podium, Enjolras always looks exhausted. I remember one time, when I arrived at the coffee shop miraculously early. He was there too, but passed out over a table, laying over his closed laptop and a messy stack of fliers. I want to say that I did NOT take a picture of him, that I was a decent man and woke him up, but of all the things I am, a liar is not (usually) one of them. So hidden away in the dark corners of my phone, the memory of his face, tense even in sleep, remains put away for whenever I want to look at it and relive that day. Which I do, very very often. One time, when he was away for a week, I even set it as my background – at least, until Courfeyrac caught sight of my phone and teased me mercilessly for it.

Jehan reminds me us that a lot of us have trouble going to sleep when we should, and all three of us laugh. It's true – in general, we are a pretty sleepy bunch. None so bad as Enjolras though, except for Combeferre. That man would be up so long that he forgets his own name. Bahorel has carried his limp and sleeping body home more than once. And, true to form, with Joly there, we talk far too long, he is there far too late. But even though it is past three in the morning when he leaves, it is with a smile on his face. Ours as well.

_______

Wednesdays have been Les Amis night since the thing started up. Members have been known to plan classes and work shifts to make sure that they were free on Wednesday nights for this nonsense. I usually just sit in the back with a sketchbook or my phone, waiting for the end of the meeting so I can truly speak to my friends. Although, I could honestly sit and listen to Enjolras speak for hours even with nothing to do. And tonight I feel so dazed, so tired from the dramatics of the week, that I don't even interrupt. I just sit and listen.

At the end of the meeting, Feuilly is the one to interrupt me. I expected to see zir since ze hadn't texted me. Ze doesn't have a phone, ze cant afford it. Feuilly is one month free from homelessness, having finally succeeded in zir goal of pulling zirself up by zir bootstraps. Ze has been homeless since 11 - it's miraculous that ze ever made it to age 23. We all tried to help zir, throughout the years, but ze was too proud - ze felt ashamed, I truly believe. I can understand being too ashamed to accept help, and I know that the offers meant more to zir than the actual help. Ze would take food, let us buy zir dinner as much as possible, or even accept offers of clothes or payment for a service done for Les Amis, or a place to stay on the coldest of deep Paris winter nights, but ze wouldn't accept cash. Ze worked – as a street artist for tourists, as a part time anything for rich people looking to pay under the table, and, we fear, as a part time ANYTHING for rich people looking to have a good time - and saved. Ze just moved out of zir car into a sad little apartment, but ze is happy with that. If ze is happy, then its all we can do to be happy for zir too.

"Hey, hot stuff," ze says, plopping into the chair across from me. "Whatchya daydreaming about?"

"Only your eyes." Feuilly and I love to flirt with each other; it keeps us practiced. Not that a grade A Stud such as myself needs practice, but it's nice to keep in shape. Others will play with me, but only Feuilly plays to kill. And Courfeyrac, I suppose, but lately he seems distracted and I can't quite figure out with what. I would think a woman, but she would have to be especially stunning to throw him off so completely. Not that I mind being left with Feuilly. Ze is a wonderful friend. I know, I say that of all of them, but that is only because it is an irrevocable truth. 

“How have I not climbed right into your bed, with lines like that?” Ze gives me a wink, and I know that ze is thinking, as I am, of the night they did spend with me, during a miserable blizzard, and all we did was sit under the blankets, playing Battleship. Ze completely and utterly kicked my ass.

“Don't encourage him,” says a beloved voice, as Enjolras comes to us in all the glory his 5'4” body can muster – which is more glory than a man twice his size could hope for. I tease him that what he lacks in height, he makes up for in valor. And I think that he likes that. Right now, he is all business. A pile of fliers, something that I know Feuilly zirself did, for they are things of beauty, falls on the table between us with an almost satisfying thump. Then an envelope into Feuilly's lap. “Thank you for these, Feuilly, they're gorgeous. Perhaps you could bring them around to the stores in your neighborhood?”

It stings that Feuilly will forever be more valuable to Enjolras than I. Just because ze is from the very streets that Enjolras is trying to save, because ze is connected with the downtrodden, ze IS the downtrodden. I am jealous of a person barely past being homeless, jealous of a struggle no one should envy, all because I wish, for once, to see Enjolras' gaze soften instead of sharpen when it lands on me. That line of thought makes me feel bitter and rotten – I know that Enjolras is not using zir and zir position, but. Something out of zir control makes them seem more in Enjolras' eyes. Something I can not attain. I have no worth in his eyes, I know that.

But that does not mean that I will not fight for it. “Let me take some, Apollo dear, don't pile so much on Feuilly when you have a loyal courier right in front of you. I'll take some and find places for them on my walks.”

I can tell that he has no faith in me, but I take half of the papers anyways. I pass plenty of places in my walks where I could hang these. They are a call to arms, as always, this time for clothing drive. That is something I can support, better than anything political. This is just helping people. “Don't worry that handsome face of yours – each flier I take shall be pinned up with care. I am not here to sabotage, just to serve.”

“You are here to mock,” he says.

“I am here to kowtow.”

Can he really not feel the fire between us, or does he choose to ignore it? His face does not change. “I better not see a single one in the waste basket,” he says. I place my hand on the top of my stack of papers; as if in a dream, in slow motion, his moves to fall on mine, a stern reminder that he is in charge here. A palm sandwiched between parchment and ivory. His skin is soft, softer than I assume he likes, and warm, and my entire body feels as if I've been electrocuted in the most beautiful way possible.

“Enjolras, don't torment him! He'll do it.” Ah, Feuilly! My saviour! My true angel in copper hair and golden eyes, beauty and honor all wrapped up into a statue representing all the grace of humanity! I could kiss zir! Yet their words do not keep his hand, that gently arching palm, those shapely fingers, almond nails, on mine. The air, though a warm summer breeze, is now bitterly cold where his skin leaves mine. Can frostbite settle in so quickly, just from the loss of contact? He moves on, he walks from me.

Feuilly's hand replaces his. “Why don't you come to get dinner with me?” ze offers, and I know that it's out of pity, and a desire to keep me from drinking. But pity is not malice, and I need to remember that. It's a hard lesson to learn.

A laugh rolls across the room, and I see Jehan isolated in a corner with Combeferre. They reach up, cup his arm, and Combeferre looks down bashfully. My glance moves back to Feuilly. “I could do that. And I'll take a look at that wobbly kitchen table while I'm at it.” And maybe, Jehan could use his night off of babysitting detail to have some fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos, everyone!


	5. Ch. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no clue how boxing works.

The entire building smells like sweat and blood, and the bout hasn't even started yet. This abandoned warehouse has absorbed fight after fight every weekend for the past twenty years, and the smell is as much a part of it as steel or concrete. It's been a long time since I've had a Thursday night bout, and I am ready for it. Courfeyrac sits with his knees touching mine as he wraps my hand up, winding inch after inch of off-white fabric about my knuckles and palm. "He's a new guy, big and tough, but a little slow on the uptake. Seems to have his own cheering section already. His first fight was last week, he won two of his three bouts. But you're an old favourite so a lot of the bets are resting on you. Plus." A gleam sparkles in his eyes, his lips curl in mischief. “There's something out there that I really think will give you an edge."

He will say no more, only slip my glove on and tighten it. "Got your mouth guard? Good." He pushes me out to the roar of the crowd - a sizable one, for a Thursday night fight - and I raise a fist in greeting before climbing up to the platform, barely raised, linoleum over old wooden pallets and roped in by bungee cords. It's a comfortable place for me, home from my corner. I still don't know what Courfeyrac was talking about, that will give me an edge. I look, barely turning my head, but am distracted when a hulking shadow of a man climbs into the ring opposite me. His head is shorn, his face scarred and tattooed, and he is taller than even me. A slim person climbs in after him, long black curls tied at the nape of their neck, eyes dangerous, face sharp. They mumble something as they tighten his gloves. 

“That's Gueulemer,” comes Courfeyrac's voice. “He's slow. Word has it he favours his right foot.” I nod, unable to speak through my mouth guard. “Good luck, buddy.”

The announcer steps forward and holds an old bullhorn to his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen!” His voice echoes out. The crowd shouts and stamps their feet, and from behind me I hear Chetta's powerful voice. My own small cheering section. “Welcome to our bout! Tonight, for your enjoyment, we have two mountains colliding! Eight rounds of pure heavyweight action! To my right, we have a fan favourite here. Weighing at 125 kilograms – Hercule Grantaire!” Not everyone uses their real names here. I, with nothing to lose, see no reason to hide. I smash my gloves together, then raise my fists in the air, rotating on the spot to see the crowd.

I come to a stop when, behind my usual crowd – Bousset, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Joly, Chetta, and Éponine – is not only by Jehan, who usually can't stand to see the “pointless violence” but, sitting right next to them, a serious face framed by golden curls. He is not clapping, not cheering as the others are, but there that beauty is. His intense eyes look into mine, and my entire world pauses. He came. Enjolras came to see me.

“Gueulemer! We'll be accepting your bets up until the second round, folks! So get settled, because here we go!” The announcer finishes, and I realize that the introductions have gone on without me. I whip around to tap gloves with this giant, and I feel my entire body fill with powerful fire. Courf is right – Enjolras watching me will give me the powerful boost I need. I can win this. 

We dance around each other a bit, just trying to get a feel for how the other moves. Gueulemer is covered in tattoos, thick legged, smaller on the top. I'll have to move quickly to knock the man off balance. But I am quick, quicker than my size and plodding steps would suggest. I've always been a heavy boy, with a stomach and love handles, thick wrists, wide legs and arms. I love being a heavyweight. I take one step forward, a testing swing towards his face, and he moves – yes, he does, he favours his right, I can see it in the way he dodges. I move again, weaving, ready to force him into making the next move. We've completed one circle of the ring before he does, one quick jab that makes no contact. I hear my friends cheer for me, and even knowing that Enjolras' voice is not among them can not damper my spirits. Cheering or not, he is here.

That drives me to land my first hit, a right hook to the side of his head. He does not spin but he stumbles, back against his ropes. The slim person has a cigarette – in a holder, what in all hell? - and they pulls it out of their mouth to give a calm order. 'Get up, you oaf.”

And he does, Gueulemer pulls himself back to his feet. The first hit has awoken the competition in him. We collide, trying to find the delicate balance of defend and attack, arms meeting, fists meeting, chests meeting. He gets in a firm punch to my gut. This time is my turn to stumble back, pain radiating from the point of contact just to the right of my sun tattoo, done prison-style and looking for all the world like something a child would draw in the corner of their paper. My opponents all do that; they all go for the sun. But I know pain, I've been dealt worse. We move back into the swing of things, landing some blows and missing some each.

Courf brings me some water during the first break, and I more splash it on my face than drink it. I can feel Jehan fluttering around behind him like a nervous butterfly, but my eyes are for Gueulemer, sitting in his corner with the slim person, guzzling water. Good – over hydration can be dangerous. You don't want anything sloshing around too much in your stomach during a bout. I've seen a few good fighters get knocked down from vomiting up water and bile. 

He seems to be fine back in the ring for the second round. We are equally matched, moving through rounds two and three with a knock down each. Neither of us have come close to knocking the other out quite yet, or getting on the ropes, and my fire burns ever brighter. I can feel Enjolras watching me, watching my every move. 

He will see me win, I guarantee it. I will not fall in his presence.

Which makes it even more humiliating when Gueulemer's fist connects with my temple. I feel the wetness immediately, and the blood trickling down my face, from how his glove pushed so roughly against me. The blood, felt yet unseen, incites me, and I return the punch with a hit square in his chest. He's bruised there already, we're both bruised, and only halfway through. Four rounds to go after this one.

Unless I can get him on the ground. Win by a KO. And I can do it, I know it. Things heat up in the fifth round, I let that fire take over my entire being. The crowd is as riled as possible, and I can hear Éponine shouting out words that she could cuff Gavroche for. I chuckle, low, chin brushing my chest.

“What's so funny?” Gueulemer growls through his mouth guard.

I shake my head and rush at him again. I can feel my legs tiring, my arms, but I will not back down. And I think my stubbornness is making him angry, his temper boiling with each attack I make, with the each passing second that I don't fall back, that I don't silently admit his superiority.

That is because he has no superiority, I think, circling him before the next impact. I am a savage beast, and he is my prey.

Then a well aimed fist hammers into my face, finding a brief home in the junction between cheek and eye and nose. I do spin, right to the ground, wondering what cracked, hearing my elbows hit the ground before I feel it, my forearms following, my knees. I have to take a short brief and in that moment, the referee is down next to me, counting. Counting seconds, in one-two-three-four-

“Grantaire, you lazy ass, get up!” 

I raise my head. In my swimming vision, the crowd swirls black. Except for a splash of red, a dash of yellow. The blur is shouting at me, hovering above the crowd. No, standing, he is standing on his chair and his mouth is open, as it so often is. Enjolras, my beloved. “Get up and teach him a lesson!”

His stern voice, excited by me, something I am doing, driven to passion not by ideals but by an man with no ideals whatsoever. It pulls me up, gives me all I need. It is not Grantaire pulling himself to his feet on the count of nine, but Enjolras there, yanking him up by a tangle of vocal chords and heart strings. I raise my fist in his direction then dive for Gueulemer. Round five is close to an end; he will not see the end of round six.

The minute's break has me surrounded, Courfeyrac washing blood from my face, Jehan worrying loudly, wondering if the referee wouldn't allow a moment more for rest. I laugh and pat their shoulder with my glove. “Do you think so little of me, my dear?”

“No, but...look at you. Oh, this is why I don't come, I can't handle seeing you hurt.” They hand me a new bottle of water and this time I do drink, large gulps. It does not matter. This round will be the last. I thank them both before pushing myself back to my feet at the ref's signal. 

I feel terrible physically, but Gueulemer looks just about as bad as I feel. And I know that he does not feel the joy that I do, does not have pure ecstasy fueling him. Enjolras, now quiet, now sitting, is still watching me intently. I move into the round like lightning, striking and dodging as if I were born anew. Which I was. There is a light in me that can not be extinguished with neither fist nor strike, and Gueulemer's growing frustration with my bullheaded perseverance is to my benefit. The angrier he is, the easier it is for him to lose his footing. Concentrating on his fury distracts him from my slighter movements, and I know that I can gain the lead.

My wound, barely closed, is open once more; I feel the blood trickling back down my face, see it smear with his glove as another punch connects with me. That punch means nothing to me, not in the state I'm in. I am a blaze, I am a bulldozer, I am nothing like this man has ever seen before.

And I am going to make sure that he knows it.

He has been underestimating me, despite our nearly equal skills. Gueulemer has no clue what runs through my veins, has no clue how invigorating the driving force behind my hits is. He does not expect to learn what his punching bag would feel if it could, but nothing can stop me. All of my hits are good, connections, defense up, feet steady. I nearly lose myself in the movements, and am surprised when I take another swing that does not connect. I swirl around, seeking out my opponent. But he is not there.

Only the referee's shouts draw me back into reality. I turn my face back to him, to Gueulemer who is on the linoleum on his side. He tries to get up, shaking arms pushing. I can see a magnificent bruise blossoming over his nose. “Eight. Nine. Ten!”

The crowd explodes and I can hardly hear the announcer calling me out as victor. Someone pushes through the crowd, and suddenly Courfeyrac is there, raising my fist up in the air. The ring fills up, with Gueulemer's crowd, with mine. The kisses on each cheek from Éponine and Chetta do not go unnoticed, the congratulatory punch on the arm from Bahorel, the fussing over my forehead from Joly. But it all happens as if in a daze. An envelope of winnings is held out to me, and I could nearly kiss the ref. But, since I can't, Courf takes it, passes it to Jehan. “You really killed him!”

Everyone's laughing and shouting, but I do let them get me out of the ring. We have some time to wait, while they count figure out the winnings of all the bets, and Joly as usual is using it to check me over. Jehan struggles with one of my gloves, and I can see the little smile on their face – no matter their dislike of my sport, they're proud of me. And that makes me proud of myself. Joly declares me sound, if not a little bloody, and sets upon cleaning me up.

“Joly, let me,” comes a voice, one I can hardly believe. The people around me seem to dissipate as Enjolras comes forward. He takes the wet washcloth from Joly and bends to wipe some of the blood from my face. “When I saw him, you know, I assumed that you didn't have a chance in hell.”

I chuckle, pulling at the string of my remaining glove with my free hand. “That's because you've never come to see me box before. Do I dance like a leaf in the breeze or what?”

He rolls his eyes, but does not stop his mission. The blood has trailed down, over my cheek and neck, sliding down my collarbone, and he is meticulous. “Where has that passion been hiding, Grantaire?” he asks, and it is so quiet that I can't figure out if he is asking me or himself. 

“Takes the worst to bring it out in me,” I joke. He jumps a little, and I understand that he hadn't been asking me at all. He's close, so close, and I want nothing more than to kiss him. I imagine him reciprocating, testing, not warm, but enough that he calls me tomorrow and we have a long talk leading up to dinner. But I know that I can't, I shouldn't mar such a good night with a rejection. Let's save that for one of my many nights where I would rather be dead. Then the fresh pain will fade into the rest of it.

But no, tonight is not for thoughts like that. It is a good night, and that is sealed when he hides something that could be a small laugh. I feel his fingers brush against me, against bare skin, bordering the washcloth that winds its way down my neck, down my chest. It's heaven and torture, and I could cry when his touch I retracted. The blood came off so quickly, and I feel very clean despite the sweat. “Well,” he says, standing up straight. “It was nice to see you dedicated to something other than interrupting my meetings.”

“Don't worry, Apollo. By next Wednesday I shall be all healed up and ready to spread my good word.”

“Hopefully not over mine.” His voice is serious, but there is a smile on his face, and I feel as if I have won the bout all over again.

My envelope is thicker by the time Jehan and I get home. Most of it will go into the bank tomorrow, but I do take out a decent chunk. I want to find a present for Jehan, just as a thank you for all they do. Surely there's something they want that they wouldn't buy for themselves; I'll have to do some research and figure out what would please them the most. I wonder how much Combeferre goes for?

\----  
The next morning, I am sore. It is nothing that I am not used to, from the boxing and from mine and Jehan's celebrations after. Despite their vehement disapproval of such a violent night, it seemed to draw up something animalistic in them. It always does. We go out and get breakfast, and I don't realize until I drop them off at work that it's been nearly a week since Gavroche found me. Tomorrow morning would be the week's anniversary of that mistake. 

I shake it off, take my dogs for their walks, apologize to anyone that I have missed so far about my absence the previous Friday. I claim an illness and I suppose that it's not a lie; there is something inherently wrong with me. It is not my urge to drink. Whatever this is has been with me for a long, long time. I remember feeling broken for as long as I can remember. My childhood is nothing more than a blur to me, of dark apartments, angry landlords, and parents who often could not remember my name. I hardly remember my schooling – it made no lasting impression on me and I made no last impression on while I was there. I had no friends, despite being the class clown, and I was consistently in trouble. School was just so boring. I only truly enjoyed art and gym. The moment I could, I was out of there. I could have left when I was sixteen, yes, but the idea of a change was scary. I was ready to leave my parents to their drugs, to their closed doors, to their friends coming over that I barely remembered.

From then on, I was on my own. I found a job stocking a grocery store a year before graduating; I had saved up enough money for one month's rent on a studio apartment not too different from Feuilly's, and lived month to month. Soon enough I found the boxing, and I took up dog-walking on the side. I was fired from the grocery when I came in drunk too many times, or didn't come in at all. But by then I had Jehan, and they assured me that between my two jobs and their full-time employment, we could make things work. And we have, mostly. 

Our suffering has nothing to do the rent. My suffering has become our suffering; I would give anything to be strong enough to overcome whatever is wrong with me. Or at least strong enough to protect Jehan from it.

“Grantaire! Grantaire!” As I come up to my apartment at the end of the day, holding a bag from some kitschy little flea market, I hear shout that can only belong to one person. Gavroche runs up to me, bouncing on his feet. “Éponine says you won! She said you really kicked that guy's ass!”

“I did, I did!” I drive my fist against his hair, not bothering telling him not to swear. I never do. “He never saw I coming! And he was huge, too!”

“That's what Éponine said!” He ruffles his hair back up the way we had it as we head into my building and up the stairs. “Tell me all about it!” I recount the fight for him on our way up the stairs, and into the apartment. I leave out the part about how Enjolras made me feel, but I do tell Gavroche he was there and interested. Gavroche is just about as shocked as I am that he even came; I shall have to tell dear Apollo that he is predictable even to someone whose voice hasn't dropped yet. 

I pop some frozen pizza in the tiny oven for us – two of them, so even after we have our fill there will be plenty of left overs for both Jehan and for Gavroche to bring home to Éponine, and we settle on the couch. Well, he settles on the floor with Cheese Curd, who is thrilled to have someone around for extra belly rubs. I take my bag up and pull out the satiny robe I found today. It's a hideous yellow thing with green frogs sewn into it, billowing sleeves, and a tie around the waist.

“I uh. Hope that ain't for you, R. Because champ or not, I don't think 'frogs' is your colour.” I lower the robe and see him looking at it, making the same face Éponine makes when she comes over and I've forgotten to pick my dirty underwear up off the bathroom floor.

He always makes me laugh. “It's a gift for Jehan. Do you think they'll like it?” I turn it around so he can see it better.

“It's ugly as ass,” Gavroche says, then makes sure I know how deep his disgust goes by sticking his tongue, colourful from some sort of candy, out between his lips.

“So, yes then?”

He rolls his eyes, but does not argue with me. He knows he can't. I turn the TV on while he plays with Cheese Curd. I don't expect to hear him say anything, so it takes me a moment to register when he pipes up. “You aren't joking when you say you love Enjolras, are you?”

“What?”

“Enjolras. You DO love him.” Gavroche throws Cheese's ball and he races after it; the sound of his nails skidding over the kitchen floor can be heard through the whole apartment.

I wonder what he's getting it. With a transgender sister and having been raised amongst the biggest group of queers I've ever met, surely he can't be upset about it. But I'm still careful when I answer with a, “Yes, very much.”

Matter-of-factly, he looks me dead in the eye. “That's why you won, then. You were showing off.”

“I...I was not!” I say, incredulous even thought that's exactly what happened.

“Yeah right. Éponine and Chetta were on the phone for a LONG time about the two of you last night.” He adopts the breathy voice his sister talks in. “You SAW him, how the moment Enjolras started yelling, he turned into some sort of machine!”

His impression, which is spot on, makes me laugh. “Alright, maybe you caught me! But I've seen you popping wheelies on your bike for the girls at school when I come get you! You do the same thing.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't fight me on it. “Well, if he sees you box like THAT, he'll be putty in your hands in no time!” Where did he learn to talk like that? He's spending too much time with Courf. “Just promise me when you start going out that you're not gonna get all gross and sappy and make out on tables, alright?”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “No promises, kiddo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that the use of the word "queer" still makes some people uncomfortable, but I'm a believer in reclaiming the word for use as an umbrella term for LGBT+/MOGAI people. So that's why I used it!


	6. Ch. 5

When I come home Saturday, it's dark. Courf and I had been at the gym, training . I don't have another bout for a week, but it's been a while since I've really put an effort into training. I'm lucky that Courf has a membership, because without him sneaking me in, I'd have to go back to hanging up my old tattered punching bag in my bedroom doorway. And Jehan would never allow me to do that; it would ruin their aesthetic.

I prefer the time out anyways, even if by the time I approach the doorway to my floor, I am exhausted. The trip all the way to the other side of the floor seems endless and I yawn as I silently shuffle around two corners. Movement catches my eye, however, at the end of the hallway, near my door. I look up, and by the dingy light I see a blur of limbs, a mess of hair and lips as the couple kisses. The motions are not soft; they're needy, desperate, new. It isn't until they pull apart that I realize who they are. Even though it is perfectly clear. With their sizes, their colouring, there is no one else it could be. Jehan looks embarrassed and buries their face, such a familiar action, into Combeferre's chest. I can feel their joy from here, and some of it blossoms within my chest.

Combeferre holds them around the waist, kissing their neck, as Jehan fumbles with the keys. They disappear into the apartment with a few laughs, and once the door shuts I am left alone in the hallway. It's a good alone, though, sprung from the happiness of one of my most precious people. I just hope that they’re both sober, or sober enough not to regret this in the morning. If Combeferre hurts them, even accidentally, he’ll have a heavyweight champ to answer to. And if they get together? Well, friend or not, Combeferre’s getting The Talk. Jehan is my darling and if I must be big brother, then I shall fill my role with pride.

My lips seem to whistle of their own accord as I move down the street, happy just to know that Jehan is happy. Still, I would like the chance to find a place a sit. It’s not like I’ve never done this before - it’s just been a while. It’s nearing ten o' clock, and most of the places that are open are bars. I could get in trouble for that. Of course, no one would believe me if I were to say that it wouldn't pose a problem - I prefer to do my drinking in the privacy of my own apartment. Not to say that I wouldn’t GET something - not only can you get fruity drinks like the kind I never care to make at home, but it’s weird to sit in a bar and NOT drink - but I wouldn’t run the risk everyone seems to worry over so much.

There’s a cafe I find, open 24 hours. It's a warm place, with plush seating and a nice atmosphere. I order a coffee and a panini, then settle into a chair near the window. Thankfully my phone charger is in my big, messy messenger bag, along with my sketchbook. I can be here comfortably for hours. Once my food is in front of me (courtesy of a cute red-head who must be too tired to respond to my wink) I clamp my headphones over my ears and find something to watch while I eat. Half an hour later my food is gone, my coffee near gone, and I've all but molded myself into the marshmallow-like chair.

My attention drifts from my screen out the window. It's raining, barely, just enough to dot my view with small splotches that steal the colours of car and streetlights. There are enough people out for such a busy section of the city, but with the time, they will all fade into bars or concerts or back home soon. This particular cafe is bristling right now, and I consider myself lucky that I found such a prime seat. I hear the steady hum of people under the music in my ears, and it's pleasant if not comforting. I find myself not thinking about anything, floating in the abyss of music, unfocused eyes, and a subtly changing landscape. How long I stay that way, cooled remains of my coffee clutched in my hands, eyes trained on nothing but full to the brim with sweeps and dips of colour, I cannot say. I am only drawn out of my my reverie by the ending of the playlist I was on, the silence in my ear more an alarm than anything I roll out of bed to smack into submission in the morning.

I start up another playlist and pull out my sketchbook. Some people-watch; I people-draw. A face here, a hairstyle there. Sometimes a person in particular grabs me, sometimes not. On this night I just browse, as you do through books on a shelf or the sad Netflix collection of horror movies. A person with an interesting nose leaves their impact on my paper, someone with hair down past their knees. Ears from someone, a jaw from another – they all mold together into one under my hand, flesh turning murky as I blend and fade. Somewhere in my bag is at least one tortillon, gifted from any number of people. I don't like the tool – my fingers, though larger, are easier to use, more dexterous. And, anyways, I don't like my work to look too clean. Clean lines are not me, they make any piece I do look disingenuous, dishonest. 

The crowd thins as I hunch over my work, done with inspiration for the time being. Now I concentrate on bringing out the details. Snap buttons on a coat, the shadow under, the highlight above. The coat itself, thin for the warm night, synthetics and elastic to keep the rain away. Skinny jeans, textured rough and worn, a hole in the knee. Tall heels, precarious for a wet street. Hair spilling out, curling and twisting. Catch the highlights the lowlights, the depth of each flounce. Folds, folds, folds, of fabric, of hair, of flesh.

When my hand, at last, cramps do I set my pencil down. I rub at an eye and glance at the time. Just after midnight. That would explain the emptying cafe. Assuming that, with everyone seated and no one in line, my seat would be safe, I grab my phone and head into the bathroom. I don't look into the mirror as I was my hands, past scowling at a message scrawled over the surface in dry-erase marker. “No one ever injured their eyes looking on the bright side of things.” I roll my eyes – I would add “retina damage can be long lasting” but I don't have a dry erase marker. The message bothers me so much that I leave without drying my hands; I resort to wiping them dry on my jeans.

When I look up from my hands, outside the bathroom, I see a section of the cafe that is around a little corner – booths back here, darker without the glow of the streetlights. There only seems to be one window, and it must open to an alley because it's covered with a few sheer curtains. There only seems to be one person back here, in front of a laptop that is open but black and dead. This person is not paying attention anyways. In fact, judging by the rhythmic way their shoulders rise and fall, this person is completely asleep. Their hoodie is a dark, warm colour, I find it hard to tell which in the gloom, and blonde curls poke out from where the hood is cinched lightly around their face. Someone comes up, mutters 'excuse me, ' and I realize that I'm just loitering outside of the bathroom door like some deviant. I move off to the side, and the light as they open the door illuminates the sleeper. Their laptop seems to be full of stickers, all supporting different causes. Very familiar causes.

Could I be that stupid? The door closes, and the light fades from that small frame, that laptop, and that hoodie that, in the light, was undeniably red. Enjolras. Of all the cafes in Paris, he is asleep in the back of the very one I've been inhabiting this entire night. I move over to him, and I cannot believe I did not recognize it as him. Even as my heavy footsteps come closer, he does not stir. “You moron,” I murmur, shutting his laptop. He makes no movement, no fluttering of his lids or unintelligible muttering form those lips, his curls stuck to them and twisting past his chin. “This isn't safe.” 

I go back to my table and gather my remaining things. I tell the bored wait staff that I'm moving tables before turning that corner and sliding into the booth he barely occupies. He doesn't move as I settle in across from him, or put my headphones in, plug my charger into the wall, or prop my phone up on the table. He's a fool – falling asleep in public, even in an open business, is dangerous, and I would feel badly leaving anyone in this position. 

Yet only for Enjolras would I avoid waking him. I will simply guard him until he wakes up or I decide to head home. It's the hardest thing in the world not to inspect him, not to watch his face finally calm, see him at his most relaxed. Does he still look like a statue, even with his face lax and lips slightly parted? Does he still look marble and unattainable, with his mouth not full of words, his eyes not full of fire? I won't be creepy and try to see. I just sit with him, watching a YouTube series, ordering a drink when someone (not the red-head) comes to check on us. They don't seem to mind him napping here, and I have to wonder if it's not the first time that he's done it.

My second drink is almost gone when suddenly, a hand appears in front of me, waving incessantly. Pulling my headphones down around my neck, I look over.

And am struck breathless.

I have never seen him look so unguarded. Enjolras is grumpy, true, but it's rather adorable. Like a sleepy kitten. His eyes, barely open, are furrowed under shapely brows. An angry mouth is under his nose, lips fading from a warm brown at their plumpest to a tanned pink where they meet. There is one small line between his brows, and one dark cheek is mottled from where he was resting against it. His hood is still pulled up, his hair still twisting out, from all around. He looks nearly like a lion.

“Ah, good morning, Simba,” I say. My grin is shining and bright, but that does not stop him from glaring. With how groggy he is, that glare is possibly the cutest thing I have ever seen. I reach out and brush my thumb across his forehead.

“...what?” Enjolras looks up, to where my skin touched his.

“Simba. The Lion King? Your hair, Apollo.” I press the heels of my palms to my cheeks and spread my fingers out. I wiggle them.

He scoffs and pulls his hood down. Those golden curls tumble down to his shoulders, still wild. “What are you doing here? What..what time is it?”

I glance back at my phone. “Almost 1 in the morning.”

“Shit, I told Combeferre I would text him at midnight...” He fumbles around for his phone, and I am taken aback by how human, how unguarded he seems. I could live in this moment forever.

I smile and, taking a chance, reach over to lower his hand. It's electric, and I wonder if my palm will scar. “I wouldn't bother – he's with Jehan right now. And they're rather. Busy.” I make a kissing face at him, and his eyebrows shoot up. “I was a little surprised too, but I saw it with my own eyes. They were kissing in my hallway as if they were star-crossed lovers, as if they need to pass breath over each others lips merely to stay alive.”

“So that's why you're here.” He moves his hand away and checks his phone anyways. There must be nothing to see, because it's set down quickly.

“You've got me.” I slowly bring my hand back to my side of the table, use it to fiddle with the cord of my headphones. “And why is sleeping beauty here?”

He gives me a look, and there's more venom in it now that he seems a bit more awake, more aware of his surroundings. Even that look makes my heart pound. He is glory personified. 'Lucien' was the perfect name for him, even if he rarely goes by his first name. It is as if his parents knew what wonder they were bringing into the world – no one knows what his birth name was, only that it was similar to the one he chose for himself. I wish that they could still see his wonder; every one of us knows how badly they reacted to his coming out. In fact, he uses it in his speeches on transgender issues.

“I'm here because it happens to be a good place to work.” He gestures to his laptop, finally seems to notice that it is dead and closed. Enjolras looks at the indicator light and plugs the charger in upon seeing nothing but black. “I was writing a paper.”

“You were sleeping,” I answer him. “Pretty deeply, I might add – I've been sitting with you for nearly an hour. How long have you been in this booth?”

“...you were just watching me sleep?”

I roll my eyes. “Don't worry yourself so; I was watching videos and merely making sure that no one robbed you. You were dead to the world with your laptop right there in the open and your bag on the floor.” He frowns and reaches down to grab the bag. A moment of inspection and he nods as if everything is in place.

“I've slept here before and no one has ever bothered me, you know.” His long fingers pick up a pen – to be that pen! - and use it to knot his hair into a bun on the top of his head. “No one until you.”

“A wandering vagabond, I, a thing of rags and stories!” I slap a meaty hand to my chest. “I was simply keeping an eye on things; forgive me my chivalrous nature.” The waggle of the eyebrows I give him would impress Courfeyrac, if only he were here to see. Not that I begrudge his absence, or anyone's – being alone with Enjolras is a dream come true. This atmosphere, the dim lighting, the curtains that shift with every move he makes, the smell off coffee and blueberry muffins. It's all perfection. Even with our banter. Especially with our banter. I love to play with him this way.

“Whatever, fool. I don't even know why I plugged this in...” The laptop is unplugged un stowed away in his bag. “Do you think that Combeferre and Jehan would be. Done yet?”

My heart jumps into my throat, but I squash it right back down. He doesn't mean anything by it. He just wants to know if I can go home so he can leave without guilt; after all, I did watch over him and his sense of justice would not 'repay' that with abandonment. “Probably. I know for a fact that Jehan is very proficient in matters of the bedroom.”

“...how?” The look in his eyes is honest, painfully honest, wide and in wonder. “How do you know that? I thought the two of you never dated?”

With a mental apology to Jehan, I flourish my hand. “No, but that means nothing. What of free love? All of those speeches about a person's right to choose, about not slut shaming? You preach and deliver on the freedom of - “

“I wasn't judging you. I was just surprised. Society equates living together AND sleeping together with a couple.” Enjolras shrugs, but I note him watching me curiously. He has no clue that I was teasing him. He never does. “Though, with how Jehan is, I shouldn't be surprised at all.”

We nod together; Jehan has been known to sleep with people they barely knew, because the person was interesting or beautiful. And each of them is immortalized in poetry – often without even knowing it. “Let's get out of here.”

I gather up my things and pay for both of our orders throughout the night. He shifts a little as I do so – he always seems uncomfortable with anyone else paying. I tell him not to worry and usher him towards the door. The wind outside is whipping, but it is dry now. We take a minute, both of us, to pull up hoods and secure our bags. “I'll walk you home,” I say, and my heart flutters when he does not fight me on it.

Things quiet as we power through the wind – in the direction we're heading, it pounds down on us and makes conversation nearly impossible. After a moment, I step in front of him. My large form shields that tiny man from the brunt of it, and I can feel his lips forming a disgruntled pout behind me. When he steps to the side and speeds up, I think he is just trying to get on even ground with me. But no, he keeps going, to walk directly ahead of me. My laugh is lost to the wind, but I let him have his moment.

We turn, finally, and are able to fall back into step. “You did well from your boxing, then? Does it pay out well if you win?”

“It certainly does!” I cannot contain myself. Enjolras is showing interest in me, in my hobbies. I could fly. “If I win, I make more than I do in my real job. Especially when the others pad my envelope with their winnings. Especially Courf. You know, he ended up as my coach, somehow, so I tell him to keep it as a fee or payment, but he doesn't listen.”

“He never does.” More silence, though comfortable this time, though. It's drizzling by the time Enjolras opens his mouth again, and his voice is quiet as we walk down the empty side street. “...I liked seeing you box. I never thought I would see you try so hard. You put a great amount of effort into fighting that giant. It's obvious you put in time in between games, too.”

Games. Boxing games. That was the sweetest thing I've ever heard. “Bouts, Ali. Matches, even. Not games.” He only pulls away a little when I teasingly knock my knuckles against his head. “But yes – I've been boxing for a long time. It's an ancient game, you know.”

“I'm aware.” Enjolras quiets gain, and it's unlike him. It's odd, but I am happy enough just to walk with him, just to have my hand sometimes brush him. We move along and my eyes fall to his feet, gray Converse turned black by rain and puddles. They're large feet for such a small man – thin feet, but long. 

“Did you start drinking or boxing first?”

“I.” The question stuns me, buries itself in my flesh, makes a home of my very soul. The words, the. The tenderness of how he asks it. He asks as if he truly cares of the answer. “I don't know. I can't say for sure. It's been a long time for the both of them. I...can't pinpoint either.”

“Especially not the drinking,” he mutters, and it is the truth. There are a few steps that lead up to the front of his building, and I take them faster then he does. I make it up to the top, and a hand closes around my wrist as my arm extends backwards. I turn, feeling myself move in slow-motion. Enjolras' hand is closed around my wrist, our arms outstretched. The rain is harder now, pattering down on our hoods, illuminating the light sky with reflected lights, the smears of colour from the street. “I...I am glad that you weren't drunk tonight. It's not safe for you.”

I can't help the harsh chuckle that comes from my throat, my lips. “I am perpetual.”

“You are imperiled.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and I move back down the stairs until I am one step above him. With his other hand, he reaches up and pulls my hood down more securely. What is in his eyes, I cannot name – only that it makes my heart echo in my chest, and my breath come short. “I am worried for you, R.”

“You don't have to be,” I say. But anything cavalier has fled from my body. I feel raw, and exposed, and I would gave anything to be able to laugh him off, laugh him away. I cannot; he lives within me, and my words are sucked from my body. I am drowning in his presence.

He raises himself one step, then surpasses me to stand on the step above mine. Now he is backlit, face hidden by his hood. I remember him in my apartment, as I lay propped up on the couch. And I want to please him. I would never touch a drop of anything harder than apple juice again, if only he asked. Which I think would anger him – he's the sort to believe change should be for one's own improvement, I feel, and not for others. It seems the sort of thing he would believe in. My face remains turned up towards him. “Grantaire,” he says, his voice an enigma. But then he is gone, pulled away from me, and rushing into his building, a flash of red that I fear I will never understand.

Still. He expresses concern for me. I worry him. I frighten him. They are negative emotions, ones that I would never wish upon my beloved. Not at my hand. And yet...they mean that he thinks of me. He thinks of me as someone worth his concern. 

My wrist tingles where he touched me, where he held me, and my flesh yearns for him as loudly as my heart does. Every cell calls for him, sings for him, tells me to go after him. Instead, I turn on my heel, unable to keep a wavering smile from my lips, and begin the steady, soaking march home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading!


	7. Ch. 6

After a heavy, warm sleep with Cheese Curd and Oscar, I wake late and start breakfast. I'll make waffles, blueberry ones. A lot of waffles, since Combeferre's heavy boots are still neatly by the door, his leather vest slung over the couch. It was quiet when I got home, as I showered, and when I watched TV until bed. I can hear shuffling now, in Jehan's room. I am happy to see that the robe I bought them is being used.

Seeing it stretched over Combeferre's shoulders, however, and NOT Jehans', makes me laugh; I have to set down the mixing bowl and lean against the counted. “'Ferre!” I gasp. “That's...that's definitely not big enough for you, and I really don't think the sash suits you!”

He gives me a half-hearted glare, but it doesn't reach his eyes. No, those are full of joy. His hair is mussed, and there are darker splotches of skin on his neck. I wink at him and his entire body shudders, flustered and embarrassed. “I...they...Grantaire, don't tease me.”

“I'm not teasing you! I was simply stating a fact. You KNOW that you could have borrowed some of my clothes.” Another wink; I just can't help myself. “Sit down; I'm making breakfast.”

Combeferre sits, folding his arms on the table. He feels much more awkward than I do. It's practically radiating off of him. I wonder for a moment if I should be wearing sunglasses. I just give him a knowing look and turn away to mix the blueberries into the batter. “You, uh,” he tries to start again. “You don't seem surprised to see me.”

“I'm not,” I say easily. “I happened to see you feeling up our dear sweet Jehan in the hallway last night, and made myself scarce.” What I don't say is that I knew it was coming. When Jehan wants something, they most certainly get it. I don't know what's going on between them or what Jehan has told him, so I just keep my mouth shut. If this works out for the best, THEN I can gloat on my roommate's behalf.

He shuffles a bit. “Oh, I didn't mean to kick you out or anything. It wasn't. Planned.” I turn and must look more dangerous than I think, what with a batter covered whisk in my hand. “I mean! It was...nice, it was a nice impromptu date, and, and...and after-date. Just nothing we. Set out to do.”

“No worries on my account; I've been sexiled more times than I can remember.” I abandon my batter for a moment and dig out out ancient waffle press. It takes a while to heat up, and I should have plugged it in before I even started the batter. Ah well – I'll just have to keep sampling and testing the batter to tide me over. “What exactly.../did/ you set out to do?”

As if he's going to be caught in some inappropriate, Combeferre hesitates. Doesn't he know that I'll get all of the gory details out of Jehan, anyways? “We were going to that little bookshop they like, just for something to do. We spent a long time in there, pawing though old books, reading, what have you.”

Jehan moves out into the kitchen with a smile. “I lost him in a pile of Kant,” they say as a way of 'good morning.' They are absolutely glowing in joy, and I am nearly as enraptured with their shining smile and grace as Combeferre is. There is something in the way they look at each other that speaks volumes, and I think I have my answer concerning their relationship status. “We stayed until close.”

“And I bought them empty journals,” Combeferre says with a smile.

That makes Jehan laugh. “Grantaire, he's missing he best part. As we go to pay, this glorious man picks me up and sets me on the counter.” They start to laugh, and wrap their arms around Combeferre's shoulders. “Then he...he looks at the cashier and says 'E-excuse me, but I would like to check out this...this hot bestseller...!'”

Now that Jehan is laughing too hard to continue, and Combeferre, looking down at the table, picks up the tale. He is mortified and I love every second of it. “The cashier looks at me and goes 'Sir, this isn't a library.' Then I had to wait and pay him and everything, after Jehan got on him for using gendered terms.”

“Meaning respect and trying to be polite are one thing, but you can accomplish the same thing with a kind tone!” Jehan seems too happy to even go on their never-ending diatribe against sir, ma'am, and the like. Usually, they can get very fiery about the subject, but something – possibly the matching bite marks on their neck – tells me that they're too tired for such a thing.

“Well, it certainly sounds like you had an exciting time,” I say, pouring some batter into the now hissing iron.

“It was exhilarating.”

Being with them, as happy as they are, exhausts me. I am not jealous of Combeferre, not because of the intimacy between Jehan and myself. No, I am thrilled that they sit on the couch together, legs entwined, watching some nature documentary. I keep to myself in my room, door open so they don't feel as if they kicked me out. The newspaper is on my floor and a canvas set up against the wall, and my brushes are out, so I am content. Yet...I am jealous. Jealous of the ease of them, jealous of how they have found each other. They seem calm, joyful. I would like that calm for myself.

By the time I come out to wash out my mugs – lovingly labeled with 'paint water' and 'not paint water' by Feuilly after one too many mishaps – they are very done with their documentary. I wonder if, in their intense make out session on the couch, they even notice me. At least I know that the smell of alcohol radiating from me, from my room, is covered up by paint, and that my failures will not interrupt their success.

It's hours and one order of Chinese food later when my phone rings. I rather expect Éponine, who I had been texting since I put my paints up, but it is not her voice I hear when I pick up without even looking at the screen. “Hello, you've reached the Psychic Hotline; we were expecting your call.”

“Are you kidding me?”

His voice jolts through me. “Oh! Enjolras, are you actually CALLING someone instead of texting them? Are you sick? Shall I come over and feed you chicken soup? Should I call Joly?” I laugh, but even I can hear the thickness to my voice, the way it stumbles over itself in a way that only cognac can cause. He'll know I'm drunk, and even though I am still not used to this newly found embarrassment over it, I wish that I could hide the intoxication all the same. I'm not too far gone, though, not like other recent nights. 

“Don't you even joke about that,” he says. “Is Combeferre still in your apartment? He hasn't answered his phone all day and now it's not even going through.”

“He's here, Apollo, no worries. A little preoccupied, but here. On the couch, it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins, as if they are two rivers...two wild rapids, crashing into one another at the mouth of a great ocean, ready to mingle with all the brings life, ready to BE life, ancient and powerful and-”

His murmur of 'drunk again' stops me in my tracks. Enjolras, as always, is eager to speak up now that I have finally shut my mouth. “That's fine. I just needed to go over some things for Les Amis with him and was hoping to...never mind.” His sigh could push breath into the lungs of a dead man. “Just tell him I called, if you can remember to do so.” 

He sounds tired, and I am struck with the urge to go to him, to settle him in for a Saturday off. IN fact, I should do just that, venture to his house and make sure that he's not working too hard. “Are you at home?”

“Yes, why d-”

“Stay there, I'm coming over. I'll see you in a bit!” I can hear him telling me not to, but the idea is in my head and I know that it will be fine once I'm over there. I come out into the now empty living room, humming, and slip my shoes on. I grab my hoodie as I head out the door.  
\----  
When I knock on the door of his place – the bottom of a split level – I am still smiling, still reeling a bit, and still sure of myself. The trip seemed to take ages, but that must just be my excitement to see him. He takes what must be a century to open the door, and answers my bright grin with a scowl. Enjolras sniffs once and looks ups at me more through his eyebrows than actually tilting his head upwards. “You reek.”

“And hello to you, too!” I slip into the room past him, delighted that he doesn't try to stop me. It's cluttered in here. Not messy, just full of books and papers and a hamper that looks as if it is waiting by the door to head to laundromat. I've been here before, a few times, and as always the enduring smell of him, permeating everything, brings joy to swell in my chest. I plop down on the end of his couch near the fishbowl. “Victor! My old friend! This...uh. IS still Victor, right?”

Enjolras is still standing in front of his door, and doesn't seem to pleased with my reminder of his inability to keep anything more complex than a fake fern alive. Or maybe that's just his face. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting! Wait.” I have to stop and think for a moment. “No! I am on a mission, sent here with very important orders. Orders to make you sit down for once and rest!”

“Orders from who? And I AM resting.” He points to a mug on the table, among a mess of school work and what looks like petition drafts for something or another As if that proves that he's resting. I reach out and pick it up. It is full, and it is cold. I just give him a look, but he just sends it back my way. 

I shake my head and set the mug back down. “The people will live another day without your help. And it's Sunday, don't do homework on a Sunday. Sunday is for rest! Relaxation! Sitting!”

“I can sit and work at the same time.” Still, he comes back to the couch and sits down, on the opposite end from me. He's wearing his hoodie and looks disheveled, arms folded over his chest. He brings his feet to rest on the coffee table, in the only clean space on it, and yanks his computer into his lap. “You can stay if you want, but I have more entertaining things to do than entertain a toddler.”

“No no no, that's not what I came over here for.” I scoot over to the middle of the couch, close enough to touch him, and peer at his screen. “The societal implications of a fascist controlling of unnecessarily strict dress codes in schools throughout our nation are nothing but a danger to women and young girls at every stage of- see? No. These are not Sunday words.” I reach across him – he draws his hand back up to his chest – and save the document, then shut his laptop and put it on the end table.

“Grantaire,” he huffs. “I take it back. You can't stay.”

“I'll make you brownies,” I offer. When I've been drinking – even though I can feel myself settling down now, slowly but surely – I love to bake. And Enjolras, as we all know, is a chocolate fiend. I hope that when he is running for office, his competition doesn't offer him a torte in exchange for withdrawing from the campaign. Despite his views, his passion, and his drive, Enjolras might actually be weak and agree to it with the promise of fudge.

He glowers at me. “You can stay a little while. I'm still going to work, though.”

I wander into the kitchen and paw through his pantries. Bless him. Bless the box of brownie mix I find. As much as I love Jehan, sometimes I just want a box of brownie or cake mix without having to worry about if it will have to pass their inspection of contents. It's a weird brand I've never heard of before, and must come from some local thing. Enjolras isn't quite as organic as Jehan, but would rather be caught dead than going into some big box store for brownie mix provided by some huge conglomerate. Still, with the eggs and vegetable oil I find, these brownies will be much easier than from scratch. Which I certainly have no problem doing, even tipsy, but this will be much faster. I hear him typing away in the living room, his fingers on the keys providing a rhythm for my measuring and cracking and stirring.

By the time I come back out into the living room, brownies in the oven, Enjolras is lost in his work. He barely grunts in acknowledgment of my presence. So I decide to let him work. He can have whatever time is left until the brownies cool to work. I just fiddle with my phone, reading Le Gorafi articles until the timer goes off. I use my sleeves as oven mitts, since I can't find a single one anywhere in the kitchen. The brownies look beautiful as I set them to cool.

“Are they ready?” There is a tired face in the doorway when I turn around. Enjolras is stunning even in his sweatpants and barefoot.

“They have to cool,” I say, moving over to the fridge. A quick inspection of the freezer reveals half a container on vanilla ice cream. Perfect. I hear him pattering over to the table as I look in the fridge. “No chocolate syrup?” 

“Nutella's in the cupboard.” Ah. Yes. Nutella. It had been a sore spot for a while, between Enjolras' love of the stuff, concerns of environmental impact, and the Nutella tax. But I always knew that nothing would stop him from buying container after container, which I have seen him eat with only a spoon or, in especially dire circumstances, his fingers.

I get it out, nudge his hand away from the hot pan of brownies, and pour us both a glass of almond milk. “Did you get your work done?”

“My work is never done,” he says, taking his glass up.

“It is now.” His glare does nothing to me; if Enjolras' anger were a weapon, I would have died years ago. I just shake my head. “We'll have our brownies, put on the TV – not news – and relax, alright? It's early enough to still get some downtime in, and I won't have you dying of a heart attack at age 25 because you don't take care of yourself.”

His snort of derision puts every past snort of derision to shame. “As if you can talk.”

“I am an /athlete/,” I shoot back, glad to have our little banter.

“You're an alcoholic, Grantaire.”

The mood of the room shifts, from the joy of friendly bickering to the misery of a man's heart stopping within his chest. Even as I look at Enjolras, I understand that he had not meant to cut so deeply, that he had not meant to use that word. His meaning doesn't matter. He's said it, spit it out like poison, and it IS poison that runs through my veins. The silence is so thick that I may drown in it, and I cannot stand the way my eyes burn. I shake my head and stand up, hands flat on the table. I have to circle it, past him, to get to the brownie pan, and in my peripherals, Enjolras reaches out for me. And I move away. 

There are no words as I cut out the brownies – still too warm – and scoop them into two bowls. A messy scoop of ice cream on each, and I leave him to his damned Nutella. Half of me wants to leave, but that would mean stealing the spoon and bowl in my hand. Instead, I sit on the end of the couch, bowl in my lap, and watch Victor. He swims in his little bowl with a pirate ship at the bottom, looping around, going up, going down. My legs feel the warmth of the brownie, the cool of the ice cream, but every other part of me just feels hurt.

It's nearly five minutes later when I hear him exit the kitchen. I refuse to turn towards him, but I don't need to see him to know what he's doing. I feel him sit down, not on the opposite end of the couch, but in the middle section. What I do see is his hand bringing a spoon to my bowl, banging it against the edge until a large dollop of Nutella lands in my quickly puddling ice cream. He says nothing, just turns on the TV. It hums to life and he finds some cooking show. I don't eat, cannot stand the idea of even moving right now. His spoon hits his dish, though, and I wonder if he is eating because he truly wants too, or just to have something to do in this awkward, painful situation. Each bite jostles him against me, and I cannot pretend that we do not touch. 

Finally I turn slightly to face the TV and finally pick up my spoon. I can't concentrate on the show or the taste with him so close to me. And when his arms wrap around my bicep, I know that he is sorry. It makes me want to cry. I just eat instead.

When I set my bowl down next Victor, Enjolras stirs. “Grantaire,” he begins. My attempt to shush him is ignored. So I turn to look at him. His arms are suddenly around my neck, his torso pressed to mine. I raise my free hand in surprise, unsure of what to so. Slowly, I hook my arm around him, my palm coming to rest between his shoulder blades. Enjolras shifts, and I realize that he is soft and freed. I've never even seen Enjolras unbound, much less touched him in such a state. I didn't even notice before, but I suppose I never expected much up there, with his size – but no, don't think about that, he would hate that. I feel guilty for even dwelling on it. Instead, I just hold him close. I hardly forget he has spoken until he does so again. “I didn't me-”

“I know.” I don't want to pull away; I want to hold onto him and pretend that it is infinite. But I have to, I must. Slowly, carefully, I separate myself from him. His eyes are sad, and I never want to see them that way again. My mouth opens, but no words form, and my lips meet once more. A deep breath before I can try again. “But Enjolras. But, Lucien. You...are not wrong. I have always, and forever will be, everything you have said about me since the moment we met. And that includes what you said tonight.”

I cannot say it myself, I cannot claim the word 'alcoholic' and have the universe spit it back at me as every memory that I have, and every memory that has been lost to bottles, couches, and bleary mornings. 

He sighs heavily and settles back against the couch. Enjolras wraps his arm around my bicep, rests his temple against my arm. “Still. I should not have said it. It's not a weapon, not in the games we play.”

Despite my overwhelming sadness, it does me good to know that he knows our arguments are a game. Even in times unlike this, when a serious view is not necessary, he is stony faced and severe. It can often be hard to tell if he understands when something is lighthearted. “I...don't blame you. It is...perhaps something I need to hear, to. I don't know. Understand.”

There are no more words for it. “Can we just...forget that happened? Watch something? Or, I could leave, I know you weren't crazy about me being here in the first place.”

“No,” he says. Enjolras tips his face towards mine, a shining beacon even in sorrow, and tightens his grip on my arm. “No, stay.”

I relax into the couch a little bit more. “Anything for you, Apollo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Also, if you've never read about the Nutella Tax or the attempted ban on Nutella in France, you should. It was pretty funny.


	8. Ch. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which serious drama begins. (Hospital warning - as good of a warning as I can give without spoiling things, but it's nothing graphic!)

On most mornings, waking up to see an unfamiliar ceiling means another night that I've wasted, more of my life that I've thrown away. This morning, however, I wake without a headache and to the smell of evergreen that lingers just so on only one person.

I turn my head and look out over the messy coffee table, the TV that's lightly buzzing, and my shoes next to the door. The feeling of the entire apartment is so essentially Enjolras that I may cry. It's light out, that much I can tell from my position on the couch, but I have no clue what time exactly. I feel so content that I don't even care to look, but a glance at the floor shows a light blinking on my otherwise dark phone. Bless pack-rat Enjolras for never getting rid of anything, including old chargers, or it would be dead. But that light means I have unchecked messages. With a grunt I roll enough to take it and pull it up to me. Just one from Jehan, last night around two, after exchanging a few texts to let them know where I was. "Staying out all night with Enjolras? ; 3 Have funnn~" I chuckle and drop the phone on the cushion next to me, but not before looking at the time. 5:30 am. Too late to go back to sleep if I want to get home, shower, and change before heading out to my first walk.

I roll into a sitting position and scratch my head. Our conversation yesterday had drifted from serious to not to bickering about any number of things, until the delicate balance shared between Enjolras and I fell back into place. Yet. We had fun. It was the first time it had ever been just us for more than hour, for long enough to give us a chance to see what we were like without any of the others. And it was...nice. There is no artistic words for it, nothing flowing and flowering, no lyrics, no prose. It is nice to sit with Enjolras and just be, to let our banter come naturally and fade in the same way. He even let me read his paper - and I do believe that some of my wonderful insights gave him the push needed to really make that paper worth the top marks that I am sure he'll receive. Enjolras always receives top marks. I heave a sigh and haul myself up, into the bathroom. He is still not up when I return, and I expect he won't be up until ten minutes before he has to be out the door. Getting Enjolras OUT of bed is as impossible as getting him in there in the first place. In his kitchen, I find a note pad and a pencil. I sketch out a small, cartoonish replica of my own own face, with a speech bubble saying "thanks for the couch! had to run," then stick it to the table where he is sure to see it.

It's not until I'm walking my dogs later in the morning that I realize I've left him a little heart as well.

 

\----

 

My fists slam into the punch mitts with a power only intensified by the joy I experienced last night. I wish I could show my water bottle full of vodka to Jehan, so they would see that I drink even after good things. It is not due to circumstances. It is due to nothing but...desire. Need. I try to punch each word out onto Bahorel's protected hands, trying to use every muscle in my body to obliterate them into the vast nothingness I myself am blessed to fall into with each drink.

"Focus, Herc," Bahorel grunts, his deep accent still strong even after so long in this country. "You got the force but not the aim - last one damn near knocked my thumb off."

"Sorry." My hair flops into my eyes, fallen out from that elastic. I hardly notice with my how much I'm sweating and trying to concentrate on each hit. The sound of others practicing, in Courf and now apparently Bahorel's gym, is nothing but static to me, a background to my gloves and my feet. He moves his hands, giving me moving targets to work with, precise points to search for. He grins with each hit. Bahorel is always good for coaching, and now that he has dropped out of school he is forever searching for things to do. Often that involves things for Les Amis during the day time, when most of the rest are in class or at work. Enjolras respects him for that, and many times I have thought of offering to do the same, help between walks. But Enjolras does not like to accept my help. Enjolras likes to keep me away from his precious work. Enjolras confuses me with his cold gaze and his warm embrace. Enjolras -

"Why do you keep mumbling 'Enjolras?'" my target asks, suddenly no longer moving. Bahorel's hands are still up but he is calm, motionless, watching me with a bemused grin and a cocked eyebrow. "Dude, I understand sexual frustration but wanting to punch the guy out because you like him? That's a little brutal, don't you think?"

"I don't-" Of course I like him. Everyone knows it. "It's not that I want to punch him and it DEFINITELY isn't sexual, but...it IS frustration. HE'S frustrating. LOVE is frustrating. LIFE is frustrating."

Bahorel just starts his bopping and swaying his once more. "Tell me about it."

So I do. Between every punch, every hit. In my sanctuary of bruised knuckles and split lips, I tell him my frustrations with Enjolras, with disappointing Jehan, and mostly, with myself. My lack of ambition. My miserable life. My jealousy.

He takes every word, every hit, in quiet. It isn't until I have worn myself out and am left laying on the floor panting do I realize how many of my painful secrets I have bared to this solid man. I take up my bottle for a swig of vodka.

"Let me have a go," Bahorel says, motioning to the bottle as he plops down next to me. I could kiss him for not trying to dig deep, for not trying to provide me with comfort.

"Uhm."

"I know it's vodka, I could smell it the minute you opened it." He takes the bottle and and downs a mouthful with a wince. "Next time you plan on giving my palms such a severe beating, bring some water too."

The addition of 'too' rather than the exclusionary 'instead' warms me to Bahorel even more, though a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Enjolras says that it isn't helpful. I ignore that voice, as I have done so many times before. I don't feel BETTER from outing my concerns and miseries to Bahorel. Lighter, maybe, but I remain the same miserable sack of shit I've always been. I know what I am, despite my worries and frustrations, and I know there's no chance of things changing for the better. I just have to hope things don't get any worse. Still, laying on the floor with Bahorel, chest heaving, I am content.

But not for long. "Alright, get your gloves on and let's do this for real."

 

\----

 

I must admit that I am pleased to see only Jehan and our pets in the apartment when I come home. Combeferre is wonderful and I am thrilled that he and Jehan are a...whatever they are, but relaxing alone with Jehan is also nice. They're yawning against me on the couch, though, and I laugh. “For someone so sex-repulsed, Combeferre sure has worn you out.”

Jehan flushes. “Hush...he said that he feels differently about sex if it's with me and I know it probably shouldn't, but that DOES make me feel special...and for your information we only. Went all the way once! The rest was just...fondling.”

“Oh, stop looking so smug,” I say, swatting at their hair. “Look at you, so irresistible, so sexually appealing that even Combeferre, with no interest in nether bits besides medical curiosity and turning him into a ravenous beast of passion!”

“It's not like that!” They squeal. Jehan gets up and kneads their hands against my shoulder, much like a Oscar does when he's trying to get comfortable. “He just said that, if he could do it with anyone, maybe it would be someone he's liked for years. Years, Grantaire! Imagine the two of us, pining for so long, watching the other from afar, never knowing that our hearts beat in time!”

The thought makes my own heart ache, makes me wonder what Enjolras is doing. I want to text him, but I am worried that it will break the calm between us again. How can I be so in love with a man that worries and anger me so?

“What about Enjolras...did you finally get into those skinny jeans?” We laugh at their words; Enjolras hasn't worn anything but skinny jeans since the moment the stores started stocking them in the men's section. “Whisk him off of his feet?”

“We argued about the social structures within the educational system. Which, honestly, might be the same thing for him.” Another laugh. “It was a fun night, honestly. I never planned to spend the entire day with him, especially since I wasn't completely sober when I went over, but it turned out well.”

I hadn't meant to mention being drunk, and Jehan tenses at it. “I'm so-”

They hold up a hand. “Don't, Grantaire. I know that you drink, alright? You don't need to hide it from me...in fact, I would rather know.” That makes me a little bit angry, and I don't even know why. “It's safer, alright? We can be safe about it.” The pat of my hand quells my anger, and even if I can tell that they're still tense, and I don't understand it, I sigh.

“Alright. I...won't hide it.” I only do it now because I am ashamed. Before Gavroche found me on the kitchen floor, I never was. My stomach feels a little off. I decidedly do not like it. “Let's not ruin our good night,” I say, grabbing up one of our Wii remotes; the wheel goes into their hands. “Get off me and let's see if you can't finally win a race.”

 

\----

 

That Tuesday morning is nice and slow. Breakfast with Jehan, walking the dogs with Gavroche (who is thrilled to have the day off of school, for some reason or another.) And I have to admit, it was very pleasant to have my morning drink with breakfast rather than thrown back in the bathroom before brushing my teeth. This life is strange; nothing remains the same. One moment I can be joyful; the next, I can be miserable. Things can change so quickly.

Perhaps a little warning would be nice, I muse over my sandwich for lunch. Even though the weather is steadily getting colder, I remain at one of the outside tables. I reach into my pocket for my phone, but it's not there. It's not in any pocket, or in my bag. I walk through my steps in my mind, hoping I didn't leave it in some park or a client's apartment. I don't remember using it once I left the apartment, with Gavroche's companionship, and am pretty sure that the last time I saw the thing, it was laying my couch. It's not an expensive phone, and I'm due for an upgrade soon, so I don't worry about it.

I barely have time to finish up my after-dinner walk; by 6pm it's pouring. Too wet for a man with a sketchbook in a very non-waterproof bag to be outside. I hole up in the Sainte-Geneviève Library after dropping off each dog, and find a table off to the side, suitable for sitting and sketching. The building is beautiful, and though the organic, natural form is my forte, I cannot help but move my pencil in the direction of walls, domes, and beams. The building is so lovely that I can practically feel it breathing, pulsing with the life of every person who has every crossed these halls. I find it calming in way teenage me would have called disgusting. But it is a warm place, for drawing and, later on when the rain shows no signs of stopping, finding a book and a quiet corner in which to read. It's a large book, artsy and full of purple prose, and I find myself comfortable.

Very comfortable, in fact, and before I know it a staff member is in front of me. "It's just about closing time”, she says with a soft smile. I look off to the side and notice the darkened windows. Is it already 10? "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, but we're open tomorrow."

"Oh, thanks...” I gather up my things and check out that book I had been reading, since I only have about a quarter of it left - I can't wait to show Combeferre the tome I've read - and move out into the darkened streets. The train ride home does make me wish I had my phone; I like to listen to music on the train. It's a shame reading on the train makes me sick, or I would lose myself in that book yet again. Instead I lose myself in the rocking of the train and the murmur of conversation around me. In the station I see a man playing guitar, his case open in front of him. I throw whatever coins remain in my pocket to him. The walk from the stop to my apartment is only a couple blocks, not a bad distance, really, and at least by now the rain has slowed to a light, misty drizzle.

My street is characteristically dead at this hour, being the middle of the week. I whistle a little as I unlock the door to my building and see that the elevators are out of order. I shrug and make for the stairs. There's an odd thumping sound coming from above me and I realize as I open the door to my level that its coming from near the elevators. Sheer curiosity brings me meandering around the corner.

What I expect, I do not know; what I see is Joly, standing in front of the elevator. He shuffles a bit, moving back and forth between his two feet and his cane. "Ah, so you're the one making all the racket. I'm afraid the elevators are all out, Joly."

His tear-stained face when he turns to see me sucks any mirth from my voice or face. "Oh thank god, we've been trying to get a hold of you all night...Grantaire, we need to get to the hospital. There's been an accident, Enjolras is hurt -"

Everything I've ever known disappear and the world screeches to a halt. "Hurt? how badly? What happened?"

"Let's just go, I'll tell you what I know once we're in the car." It's true. If we have to take the stairs, there's no way he'll be able to talk; I can already see him limping. With my help, he slowly moves down those damn stairs, and over my heart pounding in my ears I curse those elevators for being out. I want to run, to rush, to race. But we make it and move to Joly's car. I want to offer to drive, but I think I might be too antsy, anyways. Only once we are on the road does he start to breath easier. "Alright. He's not in life-threatening danger, but he IS hurt. The ambulance came in just at the end of my shift, I only caught him being brought in by chance. There was some sort of car accident. I let Combeferre know - he and a few of the others are there right now, but since we couldn't get a hold of you we thought it best that someone come wait for you. But I was getting anxious. I wanted to get back and figured I would send Jehan home or something, I just don't know..."

My own breathing is shallow in my chest, and fast. My heart is beating outside of it's self, pounding, throbbing. "N-no one knows what happened?"

"When I left, no, and no one's texted me since, the service on that whole block is abysmal. We'll get there and find out." He takes one look at me and removes one hand from the wheel. I take it in my own, grateful for the small comfort when every thing else in my world feels like it's spinning out of control.

The hospital is too calm for me. I expected worry, rush, but the waiting room is quiet and the halls nearly empty. I want to scream to break the silence, the tension that I wonder if anyone else can even feel. Joly speaks to the receptionist and I notice for the first time that he's still wearing his scrubs. I sigh in relief when he gets the room number and pulls me towards the elevator. "He's just been taken out of surgery, alright? He's resting, the others should be outside his room..."

I don't realize until we find the room and Jehan throws themself into my arms, immediately drying my face, that I've been crying. The hall is full, but quiet, and I find it hard to believe that no one has made our group disperse. Combeferre himself is speaking with a nurse, Courfeyrac uncharacteristically quiet next to him. Bousset sits on the floor, Musichetta next to him with her legs in his lap. I see Joly bustle over to them, then turn my gaze to Jehan.

"Oh Grantaire, where were you? We tried calling, texting..."

"Sorry, my phone...I left it, and the rain kept me inside I...what happened to him? Is he okay...?" My own voice is raspy. Around me, everything feels distant and silent. I slowly realize that everyone, even the nurse, is staring at me. My voice must be too loud. But behind those stares, I feel hesitation. Quiet. Even Jehan takes a step back and is looking at me with a very careful gaze. "What...what happened?"

Jehan glances behind them at Combeferre. "Well. Uhm. He was hit by a car...." They hesitate again, voice strained. I can feel every single molecule against my skin, can hear every breath being taken. "It was a drunk driver."

Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK. I push away from Jehan and storm off down the hall. A few footsteps as they chase after me, the muffled voice of Combeferre telling them to wait, to come back. Or maybe he's speaking to me. I don't know and I don't care; all I care about is getting out from under their heavy gazes before the weight of it all crushes me. I throw myself around the corner, into an empty hallway. Everything is pounding against me; I feel like I'll explode. I whirl and slam my fist into a wall. Something cracks and pain radiates through my hand, up into my wrist. I see the blood before I even realize that I might have damaged myself. I press my other hand against my mouth and sob into it. Slowly, I sink to my knees and let my aching hand fall into my lap. My chest is heaving, my face burning; yet, despite the strangled sounds coming from mouth, there are no tears. A drunk driver hit Enjolras, sent him to the emergency room. That so easily could have been me behind the wheel, sure that this problem is no problem, that I am fine, hurting him, hurting someone else, sending another person's world spiraling into a confusing, rushed hell.

Things can change so quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


	9. Ch. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter this go around! A bit of a warning for some self-destructive thoughts on Grantaire's part! For this and the following chapters.

Combeferre is the one to find me. He first looks at the bloody spot on the wall – barely more than a spot, where my knuckles had scraped against the grout - then bends to touch my shoulder. His large hand is warm while I feel so cold. “Let me see.”

I do nothing. The only thing to do is nothing. He slowly trails his hand down my arm, probably thinking himself considerate for giving me a chance to pull away, then raises my injured hand. My right one. It's my dominant hand, for boxing, for painting. I wish it was shattered. I wish it was broken beyond repair. It hurts as Combeferre moves it, despite his touches being so gentle that every doctor should taken lessons from him, and I hiss in pain.

“You've hurt yourself,” he says, and I finally turn my face to him. I have, but what does it matter when Enjolras is laying in that hospital bed? Combeferre looks very tired; he's been crying too. “We need to get you an x-ray.”

“No,” I grumble. I yank my hand away – painfully – and clutch it to my chest. My head is swimming. “I...I have to see him.”

“He's asleep,” Combeferre says. I let him help me to my feet. “If you want to wait here to see if he wakes up tonight, you might as well get an x-ray.” Everything is a blur, a painful blur, and I let him lead me away. 

Eventually I am transferred from Combeferre to Joly. As a resident here, he's made friends, and I have a feeling he's cashing in all of his favours to get me in for this x-ray so late at night, to make sure we don't all get kicked out. I still say nothing, and he blessedly does not push it. He's probably in his zone right now, anyways, walking me through the x-ray, telling the technician what happened, taking note of everything she says. I have no idea how long I've been here, how long it has been since I've punched the wall. I'm too upset, too broken in so many ways. A drunk driver did this. Enjolras is laying in a hospital bed all because of someone like me. I feel so guilty. Somehow, in the grand scheme of things, this is all my fault. “Did you hear, Grantaire?”

“Hmm?” I look up to Joly finally facing me again, wrapping my wrist and hand in a stretchy bandage. 

“Just a sprain. You knocked your knuckles pretty hard and they're really bruised up, but no lasting damage. You'll need to take a break from boxing for a little, but you'll be back in the ring in no time.”

I just shrug. Boxing suddenly couldn't matter less to me. Nothing matters. Joly takes my uninjured hand and holds it on the way back to Enjolras' room. The absence of anyone except Combeferre in the hallways terrifies me. “D-did something happen?”

He shakes his head. “Everyone was banished to the waiting room, but I decided to stick around; I knew you'd be back.” Combeferre moves to the door Enjolras is behind, peeks into it. “He's still asleep, but if you wanted to go in...just be careful. I'll keep a watch out for nurses.”

I race into the room, and am immediately deafened by the silence of it. 

He looks so small. 

One leg is held up, the left one, his ankle and foot in a cast. His right arm is similarly encased, safely resting on his chest. And his face, that beautiful face, is scraped, bruised, bandaged. There is a chair in between his bed and the screen separating the other side of the room, and I have never been more grateful to sit down in my entire life. I never want take my eyes from him. I want to rip him from these stark surroundings and bring him back to the glory, where he belongs. He is breathing calmly. “...Enjolras, did I ever tell you about the raccoon?”

I curse myself for hoping for an answer. “I'm not surprised that I didn't. No one really knows about her. At least, I was pretty sure she was a girl. I found her in the backyard at the house I stayed at sometimes, out in the country. She was small, and she bit. When I first found her, I didn't know that she bit. All I knew was that she was hurt. Her little back leg was at an odd angle, and she moved slowly.” I look down at my own pains, swelling wrist. “I wanted to help her, but I didn't know how. Uncle Felix – you know, thinking back on him, he definitely wasn't even my uncle, I wasn't related to any of them, thank God – would have told me I was being stupid and maybe even shot at the poor thing. So I set a trap for her, an old rusty rabbit trap or something I found in this disgusting old barn out back. She was scared, and she bit me, but I got a towel around her and hid her in the shed. I fed her, gave her water, even made a little splint for her – how I earned this scar right above my eye. You can hardly see it, but I promise it's there. I don't know how I kept her hidden from Uncle Felix or the other kids that hung out there, but I did, until one day. I went out to the shed and she was gone, chewed a whole in the wall or something.”

I shrug, bent over with my elbows on my knees. I had been staring at the floor since I started talking, and I can still see her pointed little face, those grasping hands. 

“...ever see her 'gain?” a slurred, tired voice comes from the bed.

My head shoots up, and Enjolras is watching me blearily. I can't help but smile. Smile and cry. Oh God, I'm crying, fat tears welling up in my eyes and spilling over my cheeks. I stumble to my feet and run over to him. “N-no,” I hear myself stammering. “I never saw her again. Are you alright? Do I need to call a nurse? Combeferre, even, he's right outside...”

“Sad,” he mumbles, closing his eyes again. Whatever they have him on for the pain, and the anesthesia, have him groggy. “Sad...” Then he's out, and I'm crying harder than ever.

Combeferre opens the door, seeing me sob. He comes in, quietly, and removes me from the room. I let him, feeling better, for now, just having seen him move, heard him speak. In the hallway, Combeferre wraps his arms around me. It's just us, Joly gone off elsewhere, and I am relieved. I cry into Combeferre's vest, my head dropped onto his shoulder, and after a moment I realize he's crying, too. It makes sense – Enjolras is his best friend. They've been friends since childhood, along with Courfeyrac. The two of us just stand there, crying onto each other, until the tears ebb naturally. 

“He's going to be okay,” Combeferre promises. “His leg, his arm...some scrapes and bruises. But he'll be okay.”

“It. I-it could've been me,” I groan into that black denim. 

I can tell from the way he curls a hand in the back of my jacket that he knows exactly what position could have been mine. He mumbles to me to not say that, and I feel so miserable that I allow myself to fall into the comfort. 

Finally, he ruffles my hair. “I think we all need to go home. Let's go get the others.” He sees the look in my eyes, my glance towards the door. “You can see him tomorrow.”

I hold up my good hand, pointer finger in the air. It's a little but of a struggle to get my hoodie off, my usual green hoodie, warm and soft despite how well-worn it is, but once it's in my hands I duck back into Enjolras' hospital room. I lay it over him gently, over that arm. He doesn't stir, just continues to breath, in and out. “Sleep well. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Out in the hallway, I gave Combeferre a watery smile. “Let's go...I bet Joly wants to get home.”

He nods, and we move out to find the rest of our group. Éponine and Bahorel have both arrived, during some point, and Gavroche is sleeping in a chair. It turns out they had brought Enjolras a change of clothing. Just one. He should be able to go home tomorrow. Right? I have to believe that. Am I overreacting to this? I don't know. I just know that I want to go home and lay with Cheese Curd.

Jehan and I are quiet on the way home, holding hands. There's nothing to say, and we just take each other, support each other. At home he heats up leftover eggplant parmesan and after dinner, we head off to separate bedrooms. I fish out a bottle of gin and take a bedtime swig. It tastes like poison.

I drain the bottle anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the attention this has gotten!!


	10. Ch. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel this one is a little rushed, but I honestly can't look at this chapter anymore. Still, it does it's job, and I hope you enjoy it!

Combeferre wakes us with the gift of breakfast. Crepes with fruit and scrambled tofu, and the hero of a man brought me bacon and a fried egg sandwich. The grease is as welcome in our apartment as he is; I would have kissed him full on the lips had they not been covered with a sleepy, mussed Jehan the moment he came in the door.

"I called the hospital," Combeferre says as we wash up from breakfast, Jehan in their morning shower. I wipe down the table as he washes the utensils we used. "Enjolras can come home today. But – and this is just me making assumptions, not a medical fact – with his injuries, he might have to be in a wheelchair for a while. He's going to be miserable to deal with if he's put in that situation.”

"A wheelchair? He lives alone..." I don't like that, not at all. It makes my insides crawl. But at least we know; bless Combeferre, bless Joly, bless their medical connections.

"With all of us checking on him, I don't think it will be a problem. Though." He looks over at me and smiles. "I thought I would tell you, first. I know you feel guilty and want to make up for something that you never did, R, but it's also a gift. Spend a little time with him under the guise of help."

I nod, grateful but unable to truly express it. "As long as you never call him a gift to his face."

"Believe me, I know better." He chuckles, and I wonder how he can even make that sound. While Combeferre emails professors from his phone about missing a few classes today, I call a couple fellow dog walkers I know, as well as my clients, trying to get the dogs I should walk today squared away with someone else. According to Combeferre, Courfeyrac is skipping today as well, and is at Enjolras' place, cleaning it up and moving things out of the way in case that wheel chair IS needed. With a break in his leg AND his arm, crutches just might not be a possibility.

It isn't until Combeferre asks to see my hand, turned around in the front seat of Jehan's neon purple car as we trundle towards the hospital, that I even remember it's been injured. Yet the moment I remember it, the pain is back, throbbing through my palm and knuckles. "Still swollen? Good thing I picked up your prescription, we don't need you in pain today."

"Prescription?"

"Pain meds. Joly told me that you had them, and I had no issue picking them up for you." Still, I notice how he uncaps the bottle, takes out two, then places the bottle in Jehan's lap. Jehan's. As if I can't be trusted with my own medication, as if I need to have my own pills handed out to me like a child. But then Combeferre asks me if I've had anything alcoholic today, and I know that he is right not trust me. After I tell him that I'm totally sober, he hands me the pills and his water bottle.

The pain is lessened by the time we've parked and made for Enjolras' room, moving through the quiet morning air of the hospital. I make sure I'm the first in the room. He's awake now, frowning at something on the TV, heavy bags below his eyes, lips moving as he mutters to himself. I turn to see some political show on the television up in the corner, and have to bark out a laugh - just seeing him sitting and awake is enough to raise my spirits to the moon. I move over to the foot of his bed. "Barely awake from surgery and he's already catching up on things he missed!"

He gives me a glare, but it's rather half-hearted. Enjolras must still be tired. "Are you all here to take me home?" I look behind me - Combeferre and Jehan are lingering in the doorway, watching us. "Because I canno - what did you do to your hand?"

I follow his gaze to my bandaged wrist, which is red where my fingers and arm poke out at either end. "Oh, this?" I cannot tell him the truth – he'll laugh at me, he'll call me an idiot. "You know me, Apollo - always getting into scrapes. But look, we match now." I hold out my right hand, rest it on the cast covering HIS right arm. The blank expanse of his cast needs decorating. I'll have to find some markers. "Brothers in arms, we are!"

That look again, which melts my heart. In a good way. I am just so happy that he is ABLE to give it to me. Combeferre comes to my side, a nurse behind him. She runs through the rigmarole for Enjolras and for us - the medications, the food, and yes indeed, the wheelchair. Over Enjolras' arguing, I listen to every word from her mouth, making mental notes of everything. I want to be of help.

Enjolras just wants to go home – we know because he keeps saying it, loudly - and I can't blame him. We get him in the wheelchair, Combeferre wheeling him out. He huffs the whole way about how he doesn't NEED this. The struggle we have getting him into the car - the backseat, with his leg stretched out - is proof enough that he DOES need it. I sit on the opposite end, his leg barely long enough for his injured foot to sit in my lap. He's at least changed into his clean clothes. Enjolras talks to Combeferre, asking of all things about Les Amis. It's Wednesday (how this week is moving so quickly, I could never say) and Combeferre is telling him that there is no way in hell that he's holding a meeting like this. It sparks a debate, and I take the chance to examine Enjolras' face. A large bruise on his chin. A scrape along his face, the worst of which is covered by a bandage. More white wrapped around his head, just above his furrowed brows. His slim shoulders, not in their usual red. No. In green. In a familiar green so old that it's practically grey.

In my hoodie. Enjolras is practically swimming in my hoodie, draped over his thin shoulders, one sleeve dangling. He looks unbelievably. Well. Adorable. He may just as well kill me for thinking that, but it's true. And I will keep it to myself. 

It's another struggle to get him out of the car and into the wheelchair. Jehan smiles and takes the key from him. They flow up the walk to unlock the door. “At least you're on the bottom floor, hm?”

The place looks extraordinarily clean, and by the bubble-gum pop music floating in from the kitchen, it is apparent that Courf is still here. The couch is pushed back, the chairs moved back, the coffee table up the wall. Enjolras makes a very unhappy sound. He tries to wheel himself over to where his coffee table once was. But, with only one arm free, all he can manage is to turn himself to face me. He gives me a glare as if I did it. “Where's all of my stuff?”

“No clue,” I chuckle. “Courf's been the one doing this.”

Courf himself moves out into the living room with a grin. “Hey, there you are!” He laughs, too, when Enjolras repeats his question. “Boxed up in your extra room. It's all safe, don't worry. I even labeled it!”

He's so proud of himself that even Enjolras can find nothing to complain over. I usher Courf to help Enjolras into his bedroom and promise lunch for all of them. Courf wishes me good luck, and when I find that there's nothing lunch-like in the cupboards, I understand why. We'll have to go shopping for him. Meanwhile, I just whip up some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches – even our resident vegan can't complain about that, with Enjolras' mainly organic shelves. When I carry the tray with a couple sandwiches apiece into Enjolras' room, they've nearly rearranged everything. His bed is closer to the bathroom now, his dressers moved, a night stand pushed on the proper side of his bed. Enjolras himself is perched on top of his comforter. I give him his plate first.

“You're a hero,” he mutters before taking a bite that's probably too big for his mouth. We all crowd the bed around him, talking about nothing in particular as we eat. It's nice to forget how bandaged he is, at least for a little while. Courfeyrac puts on some mind-numbing TV and we all relax. The whole place smells delicious, like fresh grapes, and we all take turns talking and telling stories or commenting on something coming from the screen. Jehan eventually abandons their sandwich for combing out Enjolras' hair, which is a mess. I think they hurt him, though, because Combeferre gently takes the brush and switches places with them. Enjolras seems nearly docile at the touches, like a kitten that you know is hiding sharp claws above those cute toe beans. But he remains calm, and I don't know if it's the medication or the exhaustion or any number of other things, but he stays mostly quiet as we watch TV. 

I end up sitting next to him after loads of switching around through the afternoon, as people get up to take phone calls, wash the lunch dishes, or dip into the bathroom. It's just before dinnertime when I feel the warmth against my right side. Carefully, I turn my head and look. He's fallen asleep, leaning against me, his temple pressed into my shoulder. Curls tumble over his high cheeks, his often hard face, soft this time. 

Something draws Jehan's face to us, and they make a soft sound. “I always said that you make a fantastic pillow, Grantaire.”

I roll my eyes, but cannot help the smile on my face. Even with the slight weight on my right arm hurting, I could not be happier. We turn the TV down and just mutter amongst ourselves, letting him sleep. He needs it. We all probably need it, but for once, Enjolras is the one who needs us and we have the chance to actually take care of him. Even if I am the only one madly IN love with him, we all do love him. We've all told him a hundred time to slow down, let us do things for him once in a while.

And right now, he has no choice in the matter. Enjolras is in the deepest sleep I've ever seen from him, his mouth hanging barely open. I pull the blanket up around him; Courf slips from the bed and pulls said blanket around me. “You know,” he whispers, “I think I should go. I gotta feed Princess Claudette.” 

After Courf's departure to feed his beloved (male) bulldog, things get even quieter. I can't shake the feeling of a double date – with Jehan laying against Combeferre that way, it could feel like nothing but. I wish my hand wasn't hurt; I cannot feel Enjolras' knuckles against mine through the wrapping. 

For dinner, Combeferre orders in pasta. With the state of Enjolras' kitchen, we really have no choice. We eat in the bedroom, of course, and Combeferre makes sure that the both of us take our medication. Enjolras eyes my wrist again, but says nothing more. I don't want to tell him, especially not today.

By the time the dishes are done, Combeferre looks exhausted. “We should get you home, pet,” Jehan murmurs, stroking a couple of his locs. “We all need some rest, I think.”

“I don't know...Enjolras, will you be alright?”

Before he can open his mouth, I thump my hand against my chest. “I'll stay. Uh. If you want me to, that is. Just for a while!”

And to my surprise, enough to make my brows shoot up towards my hairline, Enjolras doesn't fight me. Of course Combeferre asks me if, with my wrist, I would be up to it. It takes a moment for me to convince the both of them that it will be fine, and finally Jehan hands my prescription over. I kiss them goodbye and clap Combeferre on the shoulder on the way out.

“...Grantaire, come back and sit with me while I get some work done,” Enjolras says from his bedroom nearly the moment the door's closed.

“I think not, Mr. Mummy's Curse. You just turn the television to something you like.” He argues with me a little, but since his laptop is on the couch and I won't bring it to him, there is no real argument to be had. As I climb back into bed, he argues with me some more - “You don't need to sit right on top of me.” - and I fight back - “I am not on top of you, and would you rather I sat out on the sidewalk?” - simply because that is what we do. But finally I get him to settle down, and we rest back against the pillows. 

At some point, we must've drifted off. I wake in the darkening room to Enjolras muttering something and shuffling. The blanket shifts, towards me, piling onto my lap. In my groggy daze, it takes a second to realize that he's trying to get out of bed. “Hey, hey.” I reach across my own chest to grab his wrist. “Where y'going? Here, lemme help...”

“No, no...” He throws his legs out of bed, one stiff and heavy. Yet, he cannot lower himself to the ground. His glance flicks to me, then the bathroom door. 

Ah. “S'alright,” I mutter. I know he's embarrassed for a whole slew of reasons; luckily I'm too tired to have to make an effort of NOT making a big deal out of it. I help him into the bathroom, then stand outside of the door for a while. Then a while longer. I yawn into my fist, and under that sound, I hear something from the bathroom. A thud that shakes me, then a soft sound, like.

Ah, shit. Like a sob. I give it a few more seconds, but when I am sure of what I hear, I knock on the door. “Enjolras? You alright?”

“Go away,” his voice comes through the door, strangled and unhappy.

Being me, I don't listen. “If you're hurting, I need to help you. That's why I STAYED. Come on.” After a sound that I'm pretty sure is agreement, I open the the door.

He's on the floor just in front of the toilet, boxers barely pull back up around his hips, hair flounced about his face. And he's crying, lord, he's crying, with his good hand raised to his face, heel of his palm brushing away tears. I lower myself to the floor in front of him, next to his outstretched leg. He must be in pain, because even though he grumbles, Enjolras grasps at my shirt. His whole body shakes with the force of his breath meant to control those tears. He's still wearing my hoodie. I raise my left hand and close it over his. “I hate this,” he mumbles. “I can't stand this.”

I bite back 'you can't stand at all,' figuring that a joke now, no matter how it bites at me, will upset him. Instead, I settle for, “I know. But don't be embarrassed, alright? I'm just here to help you. The others just want the same thing.”

In answer, he leans forward and wraps his uninjured arm around me. He's heaven to take into an embrace, again, and I rock him a little bit, swaying back and forth. I stroke his hair softly, unable to keep my hand out of it. This time, he lets me, head dropping against my shoulder. I just murmur comforts under my breath. I always forget how fragile he is too touch; holding him makes me feel like a bull in a china shop. But he needs me, and by the grace of some higher being, some ancient deity, he is letting himself. I can tell that Enjolras is trying very hard not to cry. 

“It's okay. Let go of it,” I murmur, cradling the back of his head.

And most surprisingly of all, he does. Right on his bathroom floor, pantsless and pained, Enjolras cries against me. It's all I can do to not try and kiss those tears away. He needs to let them out. I can't help but wonder how long it's been since anyone else has seen his tears. It could be five minutes, or it could be an hour that he trembles against me, but all too soon, Enjolras lifts that now puffy face to me. “...thank you,” he says, his voice once more back in his control. “But maybe now we can get away from the toilet.”

One arm still around his shoulders, I press my knuckles to his temples and make a screwing motion. “Alright. Let me.” I stand up first, then hoist him into my arms, bridal style. 

“Be careful, your hand...” He twists in my arms, trying to get a look at it

“Don't worry yourself so, it's not that bad. And I think it's time you took another painkiller, according to the bottle.” I read all of the instructions earlier. “So I'll take mine as well. Then we can be messes for the rest of the night.”

After water and pills, Enjolras takes my injured hand in his free one. He turns it over gently, as if trying to deduce the source of the injury from look alone. “You only box on weekends.”

A sharp laugh from me. “Too correct, Sherlock.”

“So what did you do?”

“...would you believe that I was attacked by a shark and was forced to defend my life in a grand struggle between man and beast?” He shakes his head, and I admit defeat. He'll find out one way or another, and I suppose it's best from me. “I. Punched a wall in the hospital. After I found out how you were hurt.”

His eyes darken; even the beginning of the subject reminds me that I haven't had a drink all day. Suddenly my throat seems all too dry. But then he rests my hand on his lap. “...I was just walking across the street. Had my headphones on. He came out of nowhere and just. Slammed into me. I think I rolled over the hood, but I don't know. It's hard to remember. The police came in and talked to me...was that only this morning? It feels like it was much longer ago. They said that he was unharmed. Taken to jail for the night. I don't even want to think about him.”

“Then you don't have to. Even though I would have given anything to have seen you cooperating with the cops.” His dislike of the brutal ways of a lot of police officers in Paris is well-known. It worries me. Not that I like the cops any better, but he is vocal, prominent in protests. Anything could happen to him.

“You know that I am never uncooperative with the police, that arrest was ONE time, and I was part of a group. It was just one night. And I would be honoured to be arrested for my beliefs, if that is what it takes to wake people up.” He stops short, then gives me a dirty look. “We're not talking about that, don't change the subject.”

“I didn't. You were the one who started to rant.” I shrug and look off to the side. He just pushes against my shoulder. 

“Anyways.” He looks at me, those beautiful eyes serious. “I hope you're kidding. I don't want you taking this so personally that you go around injuring yourself yourself on buildings.” But I nod slowly, and he sighs. “Grantaire, this had nothing to do with you.”

“But it could have.” My words are biting, and my mouth could bleed from the edge on them. “I'm...a mess. It could have been me.”

“It wasn't. I won't lie. You make a lot of stupid decisions. But not ones like that.” He has no clue that I've driven so far under the influence that I could hardly see the road. Sheer luck was all that kept me safe on those nights. “And it was not you behind that wheel. Don't take it out on yourself.”

“So says the man who takes everything out on himself? Every failed protest, every unfair legislation, every suspicious death. You take them all on.” I hope he'll get upset enough with me that he drops the other.

When a fire lights in his eyes, I know I've won. “That's different, that's something I can HELP with, if I was just pushing harder!” I let him go, knowing that he'll wear himself out quickly. Even with all of his napping today, his body is still under a lot of stress. Soon enough his words fade, and he even trips over them a little bit. 

“I'll give you a pass tonight, Apollo. We'll bookmark this and come back to it another night. Meanwhile, are you hungry? Do you want a snack before bed?” It's nearing 11 by this point. Yet, the night feels so much later than that.

When he says that he thinks there's some popcorn left in the cupboard, I bound to the kitchen. Indeed there is. And, when I check the fridge for drinks, I find a previously unseen bottle of wine. It's uncorked and lazily resealed over with a plastic baggie and a rubber band. Must have been a gift from one of the others. I pull it out and undo the rubber band. It smells fine, and I know he sometimes has a glass so I just assume it only could have been open for a couple days. The smell draws me in, even though I'm not huge on red wine AND it's alcohol content is barely enough to say so. I take a couple of long swigs from the bottle as I wait for the microwave; it's not going to do a thing for me, but the wine is just enough to take the edge off. 

Once the popcorn is made, I settle back into bed with Enjolras and a deck of cards I found in his mess of a kitchen drawer. With our injuries and butter hands, War is a little trouble, but it's simple enough and I also happen to know that it's the only card game Enjolras knows the rules to. He's fun to play with, and as the game drags along, the memories of the past couple days fade a little bit. Nothing is okay – far from it. But Enjolras and I are both here, and he's laughing with each winning play, so for now things are stable. And I've come to learn that I can ask for no more than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Also, if you're curious, I've posted a small doodle of the main four in this on my [tumblr.](http://jehanjetaime.tumblr.com/post/134943546969/a-little-chibi-group-of-my-two-fave-les-mis)


	11. Ch. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, finally the chapter I wrote this for.

Ch. 10  
The morning is quiet and soft. I get him into the bathroom and out with no issue, and we have breakfast – the last couple eggs in his fridge - to the sound of music from his phone. He asks me to put him in the chair and I do so, then wheel him out to the living room. He picks up his laptop with such reverence that it makes me laugh. “I knew that I couldn't keep you from working forever.”

“I have a lot to do and for the first time in what feels like decades, I'm free to do it.” I wander into the kitchen, and his voice follows me. “I have a speech to write, and papers to finish, and a peer review...”

I pile the dishes into the sink, unable to really wash them with my wrist all bandaged up. The wine in the fridge loses a little more volume between my lips, washing down my painkiller. I can hear Combeferre chastising me all the way from his apartment. Or maybe from my apartment. The clock on top of the stove blinks at me. 10am. “It has not been decades. It's been two days, barely.”

“Close enough.”

I return to him, flop on the couch. Enjolras is sitting just in front of it, laptop on his calves and brow already furrowed in concentration as he types. The man types faster than anyone else I have ever seen, even now with only one functioning hand, and Courfeyrac says that he never makes typos. I rustle around the side table and find a pencil, then a notebook that's mostly empty. I can't draw a thing, with my right hand unable to bend. But I can try with my left.

Ever since I was a child, I've been trying to train myself for one thing. I'd like to be ambidextrous. It would be entertaining, unique, and fun at parties. Sadly, I'm nearly 30 and not a single step closer to my goal. The shape – meant to be myself – looks more like a pear on top of two tin cans, with a pathetic, cinnamon bun-esque scribble for a face.

My laugh must draw his attention, for Enjolras peeks over his laptop at me. He cracks a smile when he takes in the drawing. “What is that? A sad rabbit?”

“N-no!” I laugh and hold up the notebook. “It's me!”

“I like the picture you left me the other day much better. That one actually looks like you.” He twitches his left shoulder. “And not a sad rabbit.”

For a moment, I have no clue what he's talking about. Then I remember – that note! “And I even drew that one much earlier in the morning. I'll have to work on my skills. See if I can't recreate it with my left. “

Enjolras jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I kept it,” he says. “On the fridge.”

“...r-really?” He kept something so silly, from me. My heart jumps up into my throat. Hoping that I appear nonchalant, I push myself from my seat and wander back into the kitchen. Enjolras' fridge is a big a mess as his coffee table once was. I have to look through various menus, some thank you letters, old fliers, and photos of our group before I finally spot my little note, stuck up with a cat shaped magnet. It's been covered with tape, I notice. Does that mean that he wants to protect it? I can't handle that. Just the idea...it's just a note. I have to repeat that to myself. It's just a note.

When Courfeyrac comes back, I am oddly grateful. Even just relaxing, even being madly in love with him, spending so much time with Enjolras is rather intense. Courf sends me out on a grocery hunting mission in his little pink car. I think he's giving me a little break, and I appreciate it even if I didn't want one. And I'm worried. What if Enjolras needs to get into the bathroom again? Courf may be my coach, but he's not a very big man. He'll never be able to carry even tiny Enjolras anywhere.

I hurry to the nearest grocery store and pick up the things Enjolras has listed. It's a highly pretentious place to shop, and I feel like I don't belong amongst these granola-oriented types. Even though most of my friends are very granola-oriented. Jehan might be 50% granola. I grab everything Enjolras has on his list, pay with the couple bills that he stuck into my palms before I left. I also buy a six-pack of beer on the way back, at some little corner store. 

Courfeyrac takes off again after lunch, and things settle once more. Enjolras side-eyes my beer but says nothing. He doesn't stop me through a couple beers doing the afternoon, even though I can feel him watching me, I can feel his distaste. But it doesn't matter. 

His phone alarm goes off at four o'clock. “Med time,” I tell him. He murmurs something, and doesn't even look up from whatever has his attention; Enjolras has been glued to his computer since Courf left. His alarm continues and he shows no signs of stopping it. I reach over and grab the phone, swipe the alarm off. He doesn't even look up. “Hellooo, Apollo. It's medication time.”

Nothing. I have no choice. With a grunt, I stand up and circle him. Even with only one decent hand, I am able to grip the chair's handles and wheel him backwards. He jolts, as if he's forgotten that I'm there. “What are you doing?”

“I told you. It's pill time.”

“I don't like the painkillers,” he says as I wheel him into the kitchen. “They make me drowsy. Cloud my head.”

“Then it's a good thing that you've gotten some work done already. The nurse explained how much to take these, so we're going to listen to her. If not, I'm calling Combeferre.” My pointed look and the threat makes him take the glass and the pills – painkillers and something to protect from infection with all of those scrapes he has. “Good. Come on, let's go watch TV.”

“Can it at least be something with substance?” 

We get settled back into bed, and he pulls the blanket up over him. The TV goes from black to some political show, and I pull my phone off of the floor. My fourth can of beer rests in my lap, open but barely touched. Enjolras eyes it once more, then reaches over and snatches it from me. “You're going to spill that and I don't want my bed to smell like cheap beer.”

“At least give it back,” I protest as he sets it on the nightstand over on his side. I reach over him and he uses his good hand to gently push me back. “I'll put it on the floor.”

“You shouldn't mix beer and medication anyways. I'll bet you anything your bottle says that. So leave it alone.” He pushes he can even farther away, behind his lamp. I know that I could just get up and take it; he couldn't stop me in his state.

“You're only taking it from _me_ because of it being. Me!” I falter, angry at my words for failing me. “You wouldn't take it from someone else.”

“That's right. You're not drinking like that on my watch. Especially not when you're medicated. I shouldn't have let you drink before, either.” His voice is sharp. “Not in my house, Grantaire.”

I bark out an incredulous laugh. “What's this all about? You can't tell me what to do. I should just go home if you're going to be this way.”

“Maybe you should, you idiot. I don't need you.”

“I should just let you sit in this bed until some other poor, well-meaning soul comes along to help the ungrateful brat.” His glare is like fire, and I match it flame for blazing flame. I could leave. I should leave, go somewhere where my lifestyle is not under attack. My eyes fall to the bandage on his cheek, his arm, the leg I cannot see but I feel, stiff against me. My lifestyle. Can it even be called that?

Still, he's angered me. I should leave.

Instead I just huff and turn my attention to my phone. The silence we fall into this time is neither comfortable nor amicable. I tap my phone while he keeps his eyes on the television, muttering along underneath the politicians and hosts. He's complaining – though about them or me, I can't really tell. I like to think that it's about me, that I could ignite his anger past politics. Even angry at him, I crave his attention. I wonder what that says about me. Nothing I didn't already know, most likely.

Slowly, the mumbling fades. Through one commercial break, then another, and still it does not return. I'm not used to him being so still, so silent. Especially not after any sort of fight. I risk a glance over there, and he's sitting back against the headboard, left hand running over the cast covering his right. Enjolras is still staring at the TV, but his gaze is distant, eyes unfocused. It's probably just the meds, but for a moment my worry trumps my anger. I turn toward him, setting my phone down. “Enjolras? You alright?”

He looks over at me and I can see how cloudy his gaze his. Those pills are really kicking his ass, but it's better than pain. “Fine,” he mumbles, clumsily rubbing a hand against the corner of his eye. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Nah,” I say. His hair has come loose again, and I push it back. His fingers close around my wrist before I can pull it away. Our hands hover near his face, my arm crossed over my chest. Nearly in slow motion, Enjolras brings my wrist to his lips. Ever so slightly, he kisses where wrist turns to heel of palm. My heart either stops, or picks up so much speed that I can no longer feel it beating. Either way, Enjolras' kiss has killed me. But it is not the last one – he trails his lips against my skin, to the center of my palm. My voice is nothing more than frayed wings on the air. “...what are you doing?”

He closes his eyes. “I'm sorry.” Another kiss. The apology bowls me over as much as the kisses. “I shouldn't have been cruel...I do need you.”

Enjolras drops my hand and it falls to the bed, as heavy as my disbelief. His movements are slow, but I possibly perceive them as slower than they are. I am capable of nothing as those fingers, that palm, slip around the back of my neck. His grip is gentle, but I am putty in his hand as he pulls me close. 

And his lips are on mine, sunlight on thick permafrost, rain on dry, cracked earth, a feast for a starving man. Everything stops for one second, of pure perfection.

Yet it isn't perfection. No. The love of my life is kissing me, cupping the back of my head. He admitted to me that he needs me. He is proving it, pressing his lips against my slightly open mouth, he is claiming me as his own and opening up a world of possibilities the like of which I have never seen.

Enjolras is kissing me, and I have no choice but to pull away. The moment our connection is lost, my skin screams for it to come back. But no, this isn't right. “I'm sorry,” it's my turn to say, whispered into the dim light of his bedroom. “You can't kiss me like this. Not...”

He furrows his brows, and I shake my head. Shit. My cheeks are wet. “This is the medication, Enjolras. I can't...I can't rightfully kiss you back when you're like this. You're not in full control of your...anything.” This is too stressful.

“I always thought that you liked me.”

The words tear through me. “I..I do,” I say, I admit, I confess in a way I never thought of. “Fuck, Enjolras, I do. I really do. But this cannot happen this way. You're hopped up on pills, this isn't happening. Not now. We can talk about, but...later. When you're feeling better, when you're completely here. We'll talk it about forever. But then. Not...not now.”

He rests back against the headboard, eyes above me. Finally, he drags his gaze back to me. His eyes are ringed with dampness, and I could kill myself for this basic human decency. The one time I at like a human being, and I make him cry. Still, it's the right thing to do. If I let him do as he thinks he wants to, he'll hate me tomorrow. He reaches for me again, and takes my hand. But they just rest on the blanket covering his lap.. He sighs. “I guess.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I guess.”

When he falls asleep, I am relieved. And the moment Joly and Bossuet come by to check on him, I'm out the door. I need to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps. the remaining half of Jehan is 25% pot and 25% apple butter on toast.


	12. Ch. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of flip-flopping moods in this chapter, and some seriously unhealthy behavior/thought patterns from Grantaire, including thoughts of suicide.

My apartment is wonderfully, comfortably empty. I am thrilled just to sink onto the couch. Cheese Curd comes barreling up to me, barking like mad. The look of euphoria on his face when he looks at me does help, a little bit. Cheese is the only company I want right now, and I wrap my arms around him. His tongue is rough against my face and it's a comfort. "I'm sorry, boy, I know I haven't been around much. I'm so sorry. Won't happen again. It's you and me against the world, buddy. I'm all yours.” I never want to leave the apartment again.

But...why? Why in the world am I feeling this way? Enjolras /kissed/ me. That should mean he has some sort of feelings towards me, right? Even drugged up? It's not like Enjolras to just go around kissing people for no reason. He's usually rather guarded with his affection, at least physically. So was it the medication just making him looser, more free to do what he wants? Or was it just clouding his mind, making him do something he'd NEVER do were he in more control of himself? I don't know. I wish I could just ask him, but for some reason I'm too ashamed to even think if it. The whole situation makes my head hurt. I lay on the couch and pat my legs. Cheese Curd jumps right up and lays on me. Sure, he's a heavy dog, but I like it; his solid weight is comforting. I just pet him with my left hand and try to forget.

Forgetting Enjolras is like forgetting to see. He's in every cell of my body. I just want to know. "What's it mean?" I mumble into the ether.

Cheese Curd responds with a blubbering "woof," and it's probably the smartest thing I've heard all day.

\----  
Jehan seems to he surprised to see me when they bustle in the door, arms full of groceries. They give me a thanks when I help them, even if they refuse to give me more than I can carry in one hand. "I expected you to still be at Enjolras' place."

"Nah. I figured Cheese Curd was forgetting my face, " I say with a forced chuckle. I don't want to tell Jehan. Not yet, when I don't even understand it myself. I need to talk about it probably, but since when have I ever done anything I should? And I don't think I CAN talk about it right now. "Where's your man?"

"Residency hours. He has a lot to make up on after this..." They're watching me curiously, and I pray that they don't push me on this. "So I have a free night. We could do something, if you want."

The offer is sweet. But I don't want to do anything. I want to lay on the couch and mull, run this thoughts over and over in my mind until they either make sense or disappear. But still, I pull my face into what could pass for a smile. "...sure, sweetheart. Like what?"

They take my injured hand, hold it gently in their own. "Something calm. We could just go for a walk around the city. Or to the movies. Maybe to the planetarium?"

I cannot summon any suggestions of my own. The groceries feel heavier than ever as I put them away. Everything feels heavier, and I can't shake that. A jar of artisanal pickles weighs in my palm as I finally shake my head. "I don't know. Maybe another night at home is better for me. My hand, you know."

"...I know I haven't been around for you much lately," they say suddenly. " I was just thinking. We could spend some time just us."

Then it occurs, violently and cruelly in whichever part of the brain these sort of thoughts stem from: they're just worried about me drinking. Grantaire's drinking is more important to them than Grantaire the person. Does that even make sense? I shake my head and set the pickles down. "Don't worry about me!" I say with a strained smile. "You have a new boyfriend, I wouldn't expect you to be hanging all over me instead of your blushing beau! It's fine."

They watch me, eyes searching for something. I hope they find it, but doubt they will. There is nothing worth finding in me. I just kiss them on the forehead on my way by.

"...Grantaire, are you blowing me off?"

"What? No, no. I was just saying..." They look...not angry. Maybe more perturbed. "Fine, let's go out tonight."

"This isn't about that. Not just that," they say carefully. Jehan moves forward and goes to wrap their arms around me. Their hand collides with the pickle jar on the way past me, and they jerk away. The jar easily plummets off the counter, and I reach out to catch it; without thinking, I use my right hand. The collision bends my fingers back in a bolt of pain that erupts in the back of my hand and up through my wrist. I shout and draw my hand back to me; the pickle jar explodes on impact with the old, gray-pink tiled floor. Jehan squeaks and moves not farther from the destruction, but closer to me.   
My hand is aching, a burning sensation racing through each tendon. "Shit."  
"Shit, indeed...let me see." Gently they unwrap my hand. I slowly flex it, but the pain is too much, and I suck air in through my teeth. "Don't...can you take any painkillers now?"  
"Uhm, yeah, I should...wait. no. They're at Enjolras'. I sort of forgot them." And now, with my hand throbbing, I regret it.  
"Alright, I'll call him, ask him if maybe someone over there can't bring them over. Meanwhile...here. Why don't you take a bath? You can soak that hand and relax?" Baths really aren't my thing, but before I can say a word they've turned and made for the bathroom. With their bath bombs and homemade soaps, I'm sure to smell more like Jehan than usual.  
They make me a cup of tea before pushing me into the bathroom. The tub is half-filled and, indeed is off-red. It smells like. Rosemary, I think, and something else with a hint of berry or citrus to it. I set my phone to a YouTube playlist of a series I like, and prop it up on the toilet tank. With how small our bathroom is, it's close enough that I can see and hear. I have to admit, it IS rather nice to just sit in the tub and sip at that tea. Chai - the only kind I'll even touch. I really prefer coffee, but as with the bath I appreciate the sentiment.   
The warmth of the water DOES soothe my hand. I wish it soothed my soul as easily. But there's a turmoil inside of me. Enjolras' kiss. Jehan's displeasure. And the sinking feeling in my chest, the rock forming in my stomach. It's been forming for a little while now, gaining mass, expanding. A heavy weight that nothing seems to lessen. Not Jehan's soft reassurance, not even Enjolras' lips on mine. How could something I have wanted so badly, for so long, happen just to have it rip me to shreds after? It has to be more than the fact that he was high on painkillers. His affection should have brought me at least SOME joy. But not much brings me joy these day, at least not long-lasting joy. Only Cheese Curd's affection seems to truly banish my despair for a decent amount of time.

Perhaps because it's the only thing that feels real. There is nothing more honest than the love of a dog. I can believe every lick, every playful tug, every nose to my side in the morning. And, as much as it hurts me to say it, I'm have trouble believing it from anyone else. They all love me, they are my friends. Courfeyrac trains with me, Jehan cooks for me, Combeferre brings me books he'd think I'd like. Yet I feel like nothing but a burden. Courfeyrac HAS to take time from his schedule to help me distract myself, less he feel guilty for leaving me to my own devices. Joly HAS to come check on me, or know that he could be responsible for letting me alone when I've fallen and smashed my head off of the bathtub. Especially dear Jehan. Didn't they, not even half an hour ago, express worry about not being around for me? Guilt for not taking care of me. In the darkest times, I cannot believe that it is in friendship. Just human decency. That cuts me to the quick. I don't want to be a burden. I just want to be a friend. But do I even deserve that? I'm a selfish bastard, I know it's true.

Sometimes even staying alive feels selfish.

I think about it a lot. If I weren't around, Gavroche wouldn't have to grow up with my terrible influence, after escaping a life of misery. Jehan would be free to just be with Combeferre. They could move in together with no guilt at all. They could have a life together. Am I holding them back? Have I always been holding Jehan back? If they are a serious couple, if they last...could my presence impede them from getting married? Is it conceited to think so? I sigh heavily and, just for a moment, dunk myself completely under the water. For those about six seconds, I try to imagine it. Imagine holding myself under. Imagine not existing. I don't believe in any sort of afterlife; I have to choose to believe that there is an escape from this mortal life, from feeling, from being. Otherwise, I would just go insane.

I'm not sure that's a bad thing. Yet, I emerge from the water and take in a lungful of air. This is all overwhelming, these sudden feelings I've always had, finally, truly bubbling to the surface again after all of these years. Until recently, I had been so good at squashing them down. Thinking is too much for me. Jehan told me that they would rather I drink in front of them. So after I wash my hair, I'll do just that.

\----

Courfeyrac is the one to deliver my medicine, near nine. He does so with a smile and a hug so sincere that I feel guilty for doubting his friendship. Everything in me is guilt. "Guess what! We got Enjolras outside. I took him for a walk around the block! Well. A ride for him, I suppose. But a walk for me!"

Even hearing his name makes me feel sick. I hate that. Yet, I miss him. Jehan, thankfully, is the one to ask how he's doing. Once laid out on our couch, Oscar pulled into his arms and being rocked like a baby, Courf nods. "He's alright. Seems a little down, but that might just be medicine. Chetta joined her menfolk about an hour ago, they've engaged him in a game of Risk."

"That's dangerous. He always wins." It's a well known fact. Someone even bought him the expanded Napoleon Edition for his birthday, and we all divided up into teams to play. The game lasted seven hours and Enjolras stood victorious at the end of it.

“At least it will keep him busy. Is he still trying to work?” I ask. See? I an do this. I can work like a normal human being. I can take another long drink.

Courfeyrac scratches behind Oscar's ears, setting the motor inside that cat to run. “He was when I left.” A shrug. “But Chetta was pushing his meds on him again when I left, so we'll see. Oh, speaking of which!”

He reaches into his hoodie pocket, with is oddly bulging, and tosses me the bottle of my prescription. “Had a hell of a time finding them – ended up needing to crawl under the bed! I found loads of dust and Joly freaked out, so then he had the vacuum out – hey, don't take those with beer!” His voice continues even as he moves into the kitchen, taking my can with him and making me scowl. “But then Enjolras told him to stop, he had important things under there, which I'm sure means Christmas presents, you now how he squirrels things away all year for us, then stores them and forgets about them, but he wouldn't let me back under there! Anyways, Joly didn't stop vacuuming and THAT'S how I got Enjolras out on his ride!”

A glass of water is plopped down next to me. And then, something small, gray, and with rings around its eyes. “Uh.”

“Well,” Courf says, scratching the back of his head. “He insists it's a raccoon. Enjolras, that is. We stopped at the store on our walk and this was in the claw game. He saw it, and after we argued over whether we were looking at a raccoon or a smelly gray shit, he locked the wheel on his chair and demanded to win it.” Something twinkles in his eye. “And when I left, he stuffed it in my hand and told me it was for you.”

Jehan leans over and gives the small plush animal a charmed smile. “That's cute. He probably wanted to thank you for helping him. But why a raccoon, I wonder?”

My voice sticks in my throat. I look the thing over. It feels like only claw-game animals do, that cheap, short, scratchy fur, the rough seams and uneven eyes. Immediately, I adore it. It's ugly as hell, but Enjolras got it for me. Won it for me. I wonder how long it took him. Then the guilt sets in. Or seeps up, I guess. He shouldn't have spent his time and money on me. I wish this feeling would bury itself again. Why should I feel like this? He's finally let me catch up to him, we're finally on the same level. And I don't like that. But still. A gift from Enjolras. A raccoon. Does that mean he remembers me telling him that story? Or is is just a coincidence? Either way, I smile. “Dunno. But it IS kind of cute.”

“In a vomit sort of way,” Courf adds.

He's not wrong. But the raccoon remains in my lap.

\----

Though we no longer sleep together, Jehan is in my bed that night. His presence is a strange sort of comfort – strange because of the tension I feel between the two of us. Yet his laughter over my TV, the feeling of his always freezing feet against mine? Those are comforts. 

Resting between us, clutched in my hand, is the raccoon. His hand, delicate, each finger tipped with chipped, delicate shades of purple and green, comes to rest on the toy's head. “A raccoon seems so random.”

When I kept the story private before, it was just because it seemed rather silly. Now, I want to keep it secret so there is one thing that Enjolras and I share, one thing that only the two of us know. Because I think I'm ready to talk. Just a little. 

“He kissed me, Jehan.”

A pause, then they sit up. The blanket tumbles down, revealing the garden of floral tattoos that stretches from their knees to over their calves and hips; vines wind up their chest and back to create a burst of bright blooms over their collarbone, their shoulder blades, tendrils leading all the way down to their elbows. “...if you mean Enjolras, then...that morose tone is not what I would expect from such a statement.”

“Yeah.” I roll onto my back, the raccoon on my chest. “Me either. But he did it while he was all messed up on medication...so I don't know what it means. Or if it means ANYTHING. I don't even know if knowing would help...that's why I left. I was feeling so many things about that kiss.”

They push their chestnut braid over their shoulder, stroking frayed ends. “...did you kiss him back?”

“No. I wanted to. Lord, Jehan, I wanted to so badly.” I shut my eyes; Enjolras' face after I pulled away swims on my eyelids. I have to wrench my eyes back open. “But I couldn't. It wasn't the right thing to do. Not with him being so...addled. I just....”

The silence is overbearing.

“You don't know if it was the medication liberating him to do as he REALLY wanted, or if it was just something he did.” Their hand comes to rest on my forehead, as if checking me for a fever. “That was good of you, Grantaire.”

I shake my head, but their hand will not move. “Nah, it was just decent. Just what should be done. Besides, if he likes me, I want to know it from him when he's really there...

“But Jesus FUCKING Christ, even that idea terrifies me, Jehan.”

He lowers his hand over my eyes; when I close them this time, there is nothing but a warm black. “Why, darling?”

The lump in my throat disgusts me. “Because,” I say, starting slowly. I think back, to my parents never giving me a second glance unless they were mad. My school teachers giving up on me earlier and earlier each year, long before I learned to give up on myself. Past lovers never sticking around for long. The dogs I haven't even been able to manage WALKING these past couple days. “I'm not worth loving.”

I feel their gasp more then hear it, in the small twitch of their hand. “Hercule,” they whisper, scooting closer and bending over me. Jehan presses their forehead to mine. Their hair, loose now, curtains over us as I open my eyes to blurs of their peachy tone and numerous freckles. “How could you ever say that?”

“It's only true.” I can feel myself shake, and their hand starts to smooth over the sides of my head, my neck, my shoulders. “I'm...I'm hard. I'm hard-HEADED, I'm stubborn. I get angry easily, I'm avoidant, I'm SELFISH. Don't pretend you haven't noticed. I'm just NOT worth the struggle. It's not worth it for someone to jump over all of the hurdles I make for myself. It'd be like running a marathon and then at the end, instead of a trophy, he gets punched in the face.”

“Oh...” That hand curls in the joint of neck and shoulder. “I can't stand it that you think that way. It's just not true...” Jehan rearranges themself, lays on their back. It takes no convincing on their part for me to roll onto my side, head on their shoulder and arm stretched over their chest. My wrapped up hand rests over their heart. 

“But it is. I'm not a prize worth fighting for. And he spends all of his life fighting...Enjolras should have a love that comes easily, comes honestly. He deserves someone...someone like you to love him, or Feuilly, or Marius. Something should go easy for him for once. I don't want him to struggle against me...for me. I'm not good enough for him. I'm not good enough for anybody. But especially not someone like him.”

They push their arm under me, then around my shoulder. “I believe that you are. Because we all love you, Grantaire. No one is perfect, and we all have flaws. I won't deny that you have a temper, that you're stubborn. But that's a part of you and we love you all the same. You do deserve that love. And romantic love too, if you want it. From anyone, even Enjolras. He already loves you platonically.”

“I don't think so.” What that is in response to, I don't even know.

“Yes,” Jehan says, voice soft and gentle, but with a firmness behind it. “You deserve more credit than you give yourself. You're a good man. You take care of me if I'm sick. You took care of Enjolras for two days straight. You're a mentor to Gavroche, you correct people who misgender Éponine, you feed and play with the pets. You're good, Grantaire. I can feel it in you. I know you better than anyone else. And I know that you are good.”

I want to believe them. I want, more than anything, to believe them. And I want a drink. I want to forget. That's the only way I ever kept all of this down before. I have to drown my feelings before they can drown me. The more I think about them, the worse it is for me. “It doesn't matter. He doesn't love me. He never will.”

Jehan pulls the raccoon out from where it's been sandwiched between us. “You always have a chance, Grantaire.”

“Stop!” I pull away, propping myself up on an elbow. My emotions are so raw, and the turn from sorrow to anger is natural. Their constant bright side is so irritating. “You shouldn't give me hope like that! There's a difference between optimism and being a fucking moron, Jehan, and ANYONE who thinks that I have a chance in HELL with Enjolras CLEARLY has serious brain damage!”

“Well, I'm sorry,” they say, sitting up. Their voice is no longer soft. “What am I supposed to say to a man who is so destructive that he won't even give something the chance to build? 'No, Grantaire, the man you love will never love you back, get over it?' Because I will NOT.”

I fling myself out of bed, feet stomping me over to the window. “You should! Because that's REALITY! Life isn't a neat little poem you can wrap up with happy little bows and knots! Things are LOOSE and DANGEROUS, and they HURT! Not everyone can end up with your happy little life, suddenly loved by the person they would fucking die for!”

“Does everything have to be so dramatic?” they ask, and my laugh is sharp. As if Jehan, of all people, can accuse me of dramatics. “What will you do, then? What will you do if he confesses his love to you? Will you fight him, become combative and tell him he's wrong? Will you shout at him, too?”

 

“I don't fucking KNOW, because it's never going to happen! So just shut the fuck UP and get out of my room!” My head is aching and I am going to lose control if they don't let up on me.

“Fine.” I am still facing away from them, and only hear their feet hit the floor. “I'm gone. Now you can be alone, since that is so obviously what you want.”

The door slams behind them, then echoes when they go into their own room. I wrench my door open, planning on yelling something, but nothing seems right, nothing can express what I feel. Instead I turn and smash my lamp to the ground. It's shattering sound is satisfying, but not enough. Everything in me is tense, and I have to let it out. The top drawer of my dresser comes out easy in one hand – its always been loose. I throw it against the wall and it cracks. Clothes fly everywhere, and I hope the entire building can feel my rage. Each drawer following it is tougher, and my hand nearly cracks with the pain when I grip the knobs with it. The nightstand goes next, and I even tear my bedding from the mattress.

I am left heaving, shoulders rising and falling with each strained breath, amongst the wreckage of my room. That fucking raccoon sits in the middle of it. With a grunt, I bend down and snatch it up. I turn towards the door, and see Jehan standing there.

“Fuck you,” I growl, but otherwise pay them no mind as I push my way into the hallway. My feet go into shoes and the raccoon goes right into the trash. The front door is a beacon; I have to be out of this apartment, I have to be out of this building. The door shaking its frame behind me provides the same satisfaction as the lamp, and I just want more. What time is it? A glance at my phone tells me it's just after 2am. Well – if I can't catch the last fight at the warehouse, I'm sure there are plenty of other drunks wandering around for me to pick a fight with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so ends the longest day i've ever written. thanks SO much to everyone how's been keeping up with this! it means more than i can express


	13. Ch. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panic attacks, more 'Ponine and Gavroche, mentions of my forbidden love Montparnasse, and a step towards change.

"Well, well, well," Éponine's voice breaks through the gloom. My eyes have barely blinked open, but there she is, grouchy looking, her hair a mess around her shoulders, and looking very unimpressed with me. "Sleeping Beauty finally awakes, and I didn't even have to kiss him. Which is fantastic, because you smell like someone threw up vodka onto old tacos then burnt it all on a bed of human hair. If my couch smells like that after you leave, you're getting me a new one."

All in all, not one of the best ways I've woken up. Yet not in the top ten WORST ways I've woken up, either. At least I am on someone's couch -Éponine's, presumably – instead of in an alley or a hospital, and from what I can tell, I am wearing pants. It could have been worse. I go to sit up, but my head swims and my body aches. "Fuuuck," I moan. Even to me, my own voice sounds thick, and talking irritates my lips. "What happened, 'Ponine?"

"I was hoping YOU could tell ME. And watch your mouth around Gavroche, he's swearing too much as it is thanks to you people."

I turn my head slowly, moving my gaze from the drooping ceiling to the floor, where Gavroche is sitting and tying his shoelaces into a messy knot. Ugh. It's bright in here, and that makes my head pound. Nearly ALL of me is pounding. But Gavroche isn't bright, right now, isn't smiling. He's just watching me, hands moving over the grimy tops of his shoes. Then he drags his eyes up to Éponine, and they find their light. "You swear worse than that when you watch hockey!"

"You know I only swear when he situation calls for it, and that definitely does." Éponine sits down next to me, in her rescued easy chair. Her hair is long, down past her shoulders, and she's wearing one of those nightdresses Chetta gave her last Christmas. I try not to eye her up too hard for three main reasons: 1.) I am far too tired and in pain, 2.) she might think I was judging her flat chest, hairy arms, and Adam's apple, and 3.) her little brother is RIGHT there. But she does look good, still all rumpled from bed. "And, since I don't really know WHAT the situation is here, I can't quite decide what's called for. I just know that it's Friday morning, you're covered in bruises, stink to high heaven, and bloodier than any person has a need to be."

"Bloody...?" I tilt my head to look down, and see that she's right - there's blood splattered down my front, the dirty shirt I was wearing wearing last night. But the angle hurts my neck, my head, my nose. In fact, the more I move, the more I hurt.

"And your face doesn't look any better," Gavroche offers. He stands up and disappears into the bathroom, only to return with a hand mirror. "See? What did you do to yourself?”

He's right. My blurry eyes take in a very rough version of what used to be my face. My lip is split, explaining how strange my voice sounds. There's a large bruise spreading over the left side of my face, swelling that side of my nose. There's another bruise along my right jawline and my throat looks...mottled, blues and purples underneath my stubble. I look like hell. "What the..." I turn my head a little, then try sitting up – it proves too painful.

"Be careful of your hand,” Éponine warns me despite my failure. "It was killing you last night, if all of your whining was to be believed."

I look down at my hand, which is no longer wrapped. It had been throbbing, but I just assumed that was normal, with how the rest of me feels. But this is NOT normal - it's far more bruised than it was before, flesh swollen around the nail beds, my knuckles are coated with a thin layer of dried blood, and it looks dangerous. "I was looking for a fight," I recall. "Looks like I found it."

"Oh, you found it. You're just lucky. Lucky that 'Parnasse was there, he recognized you, that I knew you. And ESPECIALLY that he called me. I had to take off work." Work? She's working that far into the night? Who's with Gavroche? That doesn't sound right. "You don't remember anything, do you? You were doing bum fights! BUM. FIGHTS."

"...like. Homeless people? I was fighting homeless people?" That sounds like a me from a long time ago. I shake my head and sigh. "I was in a shit mood last night.”

"And shitfaced," Éponine says. She looks me over and sighs. "I'm going to get dressed. Then I'm taking Gavroche to school. You can come if you want." Her look tells me that I better want to come. As she shuts the door to her bedroom, I ready myself for more pain. I sit up successfully, though each movement makes my stomach ache. Gavroche is watching me over the now lowered mirror; I give him a grin.

He just watches me suspiciously. "You don't ever lose."

"What makes you think I lost?" I ask, raising my good hand in the air. Ugh, that even hurts my shoulder. He's right; I must have thoroughly gotten my ass kicked. I'm glad I can't remember it, honestly. I have enough shameful memories without that.

"'Parnasse said he WATCHED you get your balls handed to you," he said, and I wonder if he's quoting directly or if I really do look THAT bad. And there's that name again. Who do they keep talking about? "And he would know, he ALWAYS goes to those sorts of things. You've probably seen him before! Skinny, loads of black curls, fake leg?"

"Uh. Don't think so." He surely can't be a boxer - if there was a boxer with a prosthetic, I'd know. I've fought nearly everyone in the area leagues. 

"Well you should, he and Gueulemer brought you home!"

"...wait. Gueulemer? Why do I know that name..." In my fuzzy, muddled head, nothing but a vague recognition surfaces. Maybe Éponine knows. I'll have to ask her. Maybe on her way to drop me off at home we can talk a little. Gavroche is doing the talking for all of us right now, asking me why I was out fighting, didn't I usually only do paid gigs, did I remember anything at all. I push all of his questions away and check through his backpack while Éponine dresses. It seems he's got everything in there for a school day, but I don't know. There are a couple bills loose in my pocket. I slip him some money for lunch or snacks or SOMETHING, and that seems to make him feel better about me ignoring his questions. Yes, I'm paying him off, but I'll consider it charity. He never has spending money. I just hope he doesn't tell Éponine; I don't need another ass kicking. 

The car is quiet once we drop Gavroche off at school. Her radio hasn't worked since she got the rickety car, and I can't believe the vehicle lasted this long anyways. Every time she turns the keys I expect the whole thing to explode; I think she does too. But the silence is bothering me, so I go to pull out my phone. It's not there. I hope to hell that it's in my apartment; I can't afford another right now, not with all of the work I've been missing. Honestly, I'm not sure if I can even call myself a dog walker anymore - my clients may very well have found other people to take my place by now. Has it been THAT long? Thinking about it makes me feel bad, like I've failed those dogs. Imagine if Cheese Curd had a walker who never showed up. But then again, I suppose he does. I'm not a good enough owner for him. I'll have to take him for a walk today, even if I don't feel any better. But still - I don't have my phone, which means we have no music.

She's the one to break the silence. "So. What the fuck."

I snort. Always right to the point. 

"Had a rough fucking night, 'Ponine," I say, watching the city rattle by. Looks like I put off thinking about it for as long as possible. "Huge fight with Jehan, just had to get out of there. I must have found what I was looking for, I don't remember much after leaving the apartment. But. Well, I look like hell, and that's what I was after. Just had to blow off some steam, you know?"

"Well you did it in the riskiest way possible, you idiot," she snorts. Some people think she's abrasive, but I far prefer Éponine's blunt reality to the soft, demure girl she used to pretend to be, when she was trying to convince everybody of her identity. Even if it does grate on me this morning, I know that her tired heart is in the wrong place. "You were in the most dangerous part of the city, surrounded by the most dangerous people in France! How in the hell you found that place, I'll never know, but thank god 'Parnasse was in a good mood or you could have been fucking dead."

I ignore the heaviness in my stomach, the voice in my ear telling me that might have been for the best. "Who the hell is this 'Parnasse you people keep going on about it?"

She rolls her eyes as the car turns. "You've seen him, you moron. Remember that hulking giant you fought, Gueulemer? 'Parnasse was the little guy with him. I've known him for ages, he's a real fucked up guy. Like I said, you lucked out. He could have robbed you and slit your throat as easily as call me. Don't fucking go down there, what's your problem? What made you SO pissed off that you went picking fights with angry assholes with nothing to lose?" 

“Jehan,” I say with a sigh. “They were saying some stuff that really pissed me off, and I had to. Hit something.”

“Huh. Usually you're practically living up their asshole.” We're approaching my building; she drives past it. I'm glad for it. I don't want to risk seeing Jehan on their way out to work. I'll have to talk to them eventually, but I can't handle it right now. “What could they say to make you that angry?”

I drop my head back against the seat. “Ugh. Their usual garbage. Believe in yourself! Keep up hope! You matter! All of that shit they're always spouting.”

“It's not shit to them.” She lets my glare roll off her back as she circles the block. “I know it's annoying, I know it's incessant. But they're just trying to help. You know how those optimists are. It's just out of love. Sure, they come on a little strong, but it's well-intentioned.”

“That shit doesn't mean anything to me. They kept fighting me on EVERYTHING.” I close my eyes and try not to remember the anger in their voice. “It's like they didn't even care about what I was saying.”

“Okay, you and I both know that's the anger talking. Jehan is the best listener I've ever met. Why don't you tell me exactly what's going on? Start from the beginning, because I don't have any sort of grasp on this story. Go slow, it's still early and I only had one cup of coffee.”

I don't want to. Sharing this with Éponine is possibly the last thing I want to do. It's painful, and stupid. After all she's been through, why would she care? But then she pulls past the front of my building again, and I sigh. “Alright.” I start with the kiss, that lip burning, mind numbing kiss. She is thankfully quiet as I go through that kiss, the fleeing, the raccoon, the fight. It does sound stupid now that I say it out loud, but I still can't believe a word out of Jehan's mouth. It still makes me angry. And who do they think they are? I so clearly want to be alone? How long have I clung to them? How many times have I sought them out for comfort? They have no clue what they're talking about.

Éponine nods, listening. By then, we're idling in front of the building. “Well, Grantaire. It sounds to me like a very simple answer. YOU have some fucked up ways of thinking, Jehan has some serious Mother Teresa Complex going, and you need to talk to them AND Enjolras.”

“...yeah. I'll talk to Enjolras when YOU open up to Marius.” Her punch into my shoulder might be well-deserved.

I can hear voices inside my apartment as I fiddle with my crowded keys - one panicked, one calm. With the thick walls and heavy door, I cannot make out exactly WHAT they are saying. Slowly, I unlock and open the door. No one in the living room; they must be in the kitchen, on the other side of the dividing wall.

"Éponine said she had him. If something was seriously wrong, she would have told us," Combeferre's logical voice comes floating out. Under that, I can hear something I haven't heard in a long time - Jehan's labored breathing as they struggle to get air in, one choked sob - every sign of a panic attack. "I bet that's him. Have your inhaler? Good..."

His head peaks out at me, and his expression softens. "See? Grantaire's right here."

I hurry around the divider and see Jehan at the table, clutching their inhaler to their mouth. They haven't had a panic attack in ages...and I caused this one. I'm such a fucking idiot. The fight, the anger – it's all forgotten as I sink into the chair next to them. "Hey, hey. It's alright." I look to Combeferre and point to myself, my face questioning. He nods, and I turn back to Jehan. "I'm right here."

They take my hand with their free one, barely looking up at me. "Th-thank the gods..." they heave. "I was scared, I was so scared...I was sure you were hurt, d-dying..."

I hold their hand tightly as Combeferre circles the table and sits. Jehan lowers their inhaler, which had just been hovering near their mouth, and Combeferre takes their hand. His strong fingers massage into the palm. Thank god he's here to help break the cycle. "I told him that we knew where you were, but it's a strong one this time."

The chair scrapes the floor as I scoot closer to Jehan, rub my hand over their back. It hurts to do so, but I can power through anything. "I'm sorry Jehan. I didn't mean to frighten you." Except, maybe I did. "I didn't think you'd be that worried. I was safe, alright? I was with Éponine, I stayed the night there. She even brought me home just now. Don't worry."

"But," they say as they shake their head, look me over with watery eyes. I imagine what they see – my monster mask of a face busted up and bruised. "If you were with Éponine, why are you hurt?"

All eyes in the room are on me now, on my bruised face, the blood flecks. And with all the pressure, I can only laugh, guarded and wary. "H-hey! At least most of the blood isn't mine!" My beaming smile and joke get me nothing, just a wobbling bottom lip from Jehan. "...okay, I'd tell you what happened, but I have no clue. Everything after I left last night is gone."

"Oh, Grantaire..." Jehan sighs, and I am glad to see that they're catching their breath a little. I feel so incredibly bad for pushing them through a panic attack. Combeferre stands again, heads for the bathroom; I know he's after the first aid kit that Joly makes sure we all have. He sits back down with the kit, and gets out the antiseptic. Jehan takes it from him, and gently begins to clean off my face. "So, you have no clue at all what happened?"

I would much rather not answer. Jehan won't like anything I have to say. I don't like it. But I feel like, after my behavior last night - after my behavior every night of this fucked-up life - I owe them something. "According to Éponine's sources, I was picking fights. Uhm. Bum fights.”

Combeferre frowns at me as he searches through the kit for something. "That's not a very nice term, Grantaire."

"What am I supposed to call them? Homeless individual kerfluffles?"

He laughs a little, even thought I can tell he doesn't want to. I may not be good at a lot of things, but I can always get a laugh. "Alright, alright. Go on, then."

"Well, that's it, I guess. I was out picking fights and got my absinthe-soaked ass handed to me. Guess I even ran into that big Gueulemer guy I boxed a couple weeks back. He carried me out to Éponine's car, and even up to her place, according to her." And I so badly wanted to keep hating him, like I do with most of the people I fight. Seeing my opponents as human beings makes it a lot harder to pound them into the ground. And now I sort of owe the guy; hopefully I won't be up against him soon. "Then I slept it off, and now I'm here."

I hiss as Jehan disinfects the scrapes on my face. "Anywhere else?"

"Uhm." I hold up, almost guiltily. Both of my friends gasp, and Combeferre bustles over to give it a look. He shakes his head and meets my eye.

"You've done a number on this hand lately. Jeez, R, this could be bad. I'm guessing you won't let me take you back to the hospital?" I shake my head, and he sighs. "Fine. Then we'll just clean it, wrap it up again - but if you punch anyone else in the face with this hand for at least a month, I'm taking it away."

He looks at me seriously, over the top of his glasses. Combeferre looks so much like an exasperated sitcom dad that I have to laugh. "Okay, okay, I get it. Best behavior from me for now on."

“That's right,” Jehan says. I offer them a smile. I get a small one back.

I'm banished to my bedroom with a mouthful of water and painkillers. When I get there, I'm shocked to find it clean. Well, back to how it was before my tantrum, at least. Drawers back in, except for the broken one, clothes piled neatly in or on it. Lamp swept up, nightstand righted. Even my bed is made. And sitting on my pillow is that raccoon. That fucking raccoon. I sit down and pull it into my lap. 

Sometimes it feels like helping that raccoon was the last worthwhile thing I've ever done. Everything in my life has been one big, long waste of time since then. I've done nothing of use since that moment, just taken up space and made problems for people. I'm one large, pulsing, waiting...nothing. I'm a nothing. And maybe I don't like that. I don't like being a burden. I don't like causing panic attacks, I don't like to be a chore. I don't like to make Éponine take off work, or make Gavroche look at me in such a serious way. I don't like constantly feeling so miserable – under joy, under laughter, under anger, I am sad. I am a very sad man. Maybe I don't like that. Maybe, I do need to change. Things have changed, erupted around me – hospital visits, screaming matches, drunken fights - and I don't know anything anymore.

Raccoon in hand, I move back out into the common area. I stand in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Jehan rest their head on Combeferre's shoulder. They have to care about me, someway, somehow. Right? And even if everything that they've done is an act, even if everyone is only pretending with me...someone has to care about me. And if that has to BE me, so be it. I'm quiet until Jehan and Combeferre look up to me. “I.

“I think I'm ready.”


	14. Ch. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Enjolras' POV.

Enjolras

“He's what?” I cannot understand what Joly is telling me, and it is no longer because of the medication.

Joly is standing in he kitchen doorway, holding his phone in one hand and our list of minor government officials in the other, bunched against the handle of his cane. Work had been going well, with Joly and Feuilly bringing over a binder of work we had been doing, our campaign for the voice of sex workers IN sex work legislation – only Lesselier? Ridiculous – especially the inclusion of trans and immigrant sex workers. Yes, prostitution is technically legal now, but things are never perfect, and there is always work to be done.

But right now, all I can do is stare at Joly. Feuilly sits in the chair to my right, holding my phone up, a number half-dialed; I never do this sort of work without zir. Ze is looking at Joly as well, as he moves over to set his phone down. “Grantaire's going to go into rehab. Combeferre and Jehan are taking him to the hospital right now.”

“Was it...his choice?” Feuilly asks. Ze's functioning far more than I am at the moment, and I have to shake my head to clear it.

“I guess so. Combeferre said that he asked hem to take him to the hospital earlier this morning.” Joly sits down and just stares at the table. None of us can believe it. I has always thought that, if this happened, it would be more. Dramatic. Everything with Grantaire is dramatic. But. He just asked. Simple as that.

I look at my hands. Well, my left hand, and what I can see of my right. This cast is bothering me; both of them are. I cannot wait to be mobile again – with _out_ a wheelchair. If only just one of these limbs would HEAL. I sigh and pick my head back up. “What does that entail, exactly?”

Joly smooths out the calling list. “Well, first things first they'll patch him up – he was in some sort of fight – and then he'll have to go through detox. They actually have to take him TO the rehab center first – to get things set up. So he's getting completely wasted, so the rehab center has to send him to detox, then he'll go BACK to the rehab center. It'll be rough...and it's still just the beginning.”

“And it was his idea?” I think back to the last time I saw him, sad, quickly escaping my apartment. It's fuzzy; I don't remember much before that. My memory of the past couple days is spotty, but up until that moment, Grantaire was there for all of it. Making me food, taking care of me. 

Warming my bed, though not in the way in that I've wished for. I've always been too busy for a relationship, and the last break up was bad enough that I learned the lesson very quickly – I put my all into my work, into causes and protests and petitions. _'When you act like that,'_ she had said, dropping off a box of things I had left in her apartment as a final goodbye, _'then there's not enough for another person to hold onto.'_ She had called me 'bad at relationships.' I know that's not true – I have a good amount of close friends. But it's made me wary, keeps me from moving into another romantic relationship. Even one with someone I've loved for nearly a year now. I never would have expected it, but I do love Grantaire. At first he was a minor nuisance, a distraction in the meetings. But as I grew to know him a little better, things changed in a way I never could have predicted, in a way I still cannot even begin to explain. He's hilarious, he's captivating when he talks, he's fun – even when he's trying to be fun at extremely inconvenient times for me. Grantaire is smart; he has a vast plethora of knowledge, about history, about art, about dance, arts, philosophy. He knows enough that if you let him and Combeferre really get into it, they could recite enough human knowledge to fill a library. 

And it's all charming. It all makes him stand out to me, even if everyone else I know is smart. Yet with Grantaire it's somehow different, it means something in a different way. Maybe that's what Pontmercy means when he talks about Cosette – something he cannot explain. Only something he feels. And that's how it is with Grantaire. He makes me feel things, warm and powerful and pulsing, and it's a thrill. I love how he tells stories, how he speaks with his hands. His talent, his passion when he claims he has none. I love how much he cares about each of us. I love how he keeps pushing on. I even love the things about him that drives me crazy. I love the way he challenges me, the way his arguments make me rethink my wording, my angle. He gives me solid, needed pushes to go farther. It was slow developing, and at first I could easily ignore it. But every day, that's becoming less and less true. I want to be with him. I want to hold his hand, I want to kiss him after a debate. Despite how I snap at him – I'm not used to hiding my feelings, and it puts me on edge – I want to be with Grantaire, honestly and openly. But now, that will definitely have to wait; even after the program is over, he won't be in any sort of state to think about a relationship. 

“That's what Combeferre says. And that's hopeful, it really is.” Joly's voice is a sigh of relief. “Nothing was ever going to change unless he really wanted it to.”

Feuilly nods. “I wonder how long he'll be in the program. The longer the better, probably. The longest is what, 90 days? With him, I'd hope that's what he picks.” Ze reaches up and taps a tooth, one of the sequence of false ones ze wears. I remember zir overcome addiction to meth; it can be easy to forget, since only Bahorel knew zir before ze was off of the stuff. “He's got that addictive personality. With his paintings, the booze. Or that time he wouldn't stop eating peanuts.”

They share a look, then both glance at me. Joly rolls his eyes and smiles. “I'm glad for him. I mean, a lot of people can't do it on their first go around, but even the desire to get better is great. I'm proud of him. We'll throw him a party once he's home.”

“And make sure we visit him. Most places have visiting hours once a week,” Feuilly says. “I'm sure they'll get all of his info for us.”

I want to see him before he goes. I want to talk to him just a little. Something about the way Grantaire left my apartment doesn't feel right, and it weighs on me. I wish I could clear it with him. But it sounds like there won't be a chance before he's put into the program. Maybe afterwards. “...here, let's put this stuff up for now. Let's go get some brunch.” Now they're both staring at me. “What? I can't think about this right now. We can take a break until we hear from them again.”

\----

The first week of Grantaire not being around is not as odd as I would think. I grew used to having him around, but before this, I honestly rarely see him outside of group events anyways. It's during the first Les Amis meeting after my accident that it really hits home.

He's not here. 

The entire meeting is off, and we all know why. Even Pontmercy's date is quiet. Cosette seems eager to help us, though, and came up to me to express interest in anything we do involving children, adoption, and foster care. I promise her I'll let her know, and if she has any ideas of her own, to talk to me. But my thoughts are all with Grantaire right now, in that center surrounded by strangers while all of his friends are here. Everyone is thinking about him, I think. Even Éponine is here, and she's brought Garvroche. 

“So,” comes Jehan's voice once everyone's sort of fallen off topic at the end of the meeting. They rap their hand on the table, and we all look up at them. “Uhm. We all know that Grantaire isn't here tonight, but I'm not sure that everyone knows why. He's told me I could make an announcement if I want, so: he went into rehab on Friday. He'll be there for about 60 days.”

“Oh good, before the holidays really start!” Gavroche says after doing some brief calculations on his fingers. It IS a good thing – Grantaire loves the winter holiday celebrations we do, especially decorating for the hybrid Christmas/Yule/Solstice that he and Jehan celebrate. With all of us, we have someone to celebrate most winter holidays, and Grantaire loves them all. It makes me happy to know that he won't miss them.

Jehan nods. “Starting next Sunday we can go see him, but only three at a time so we'll have to take it in shifts each week, okay?”

I'm certain that Jehan will be there Sunday, with how close they are to Grantaire. The others fall back, talk amongst themselves about the subject. I wave to Jehan, motioning them over to me. I'd rather not have to ask someone to wheel me over just to ask them to leave us to talk in private. “I want to come.”

“...you do?” Their face splits open into a beaming smile. “That's wonderful! It's not a far drive from my place at all. It'll be you and I on an adventure! Do you mind if someone else comes along?”

“Of course not. The more visitors he has, the happier he'll be. And then maybe we can...use someone else's car. No offense, but your tiny thing doesn't fit my chair very well.” And neither does my own small car. “So the last person will have to be chosen thanks to their vehicle.”

“Good thing I have my mini-van,” Combeferre says with a smile, coming up to wrap their arms around Jehan's middle. “You all mocked me when I bought that thing, but it's been good to us. How else would we all be able to go so many places together without it?”

It's true – we can fit between 7 and 10 people in that van, depending on who it is and if people are willing to ride in the space behind the back seat or sit on laps. But seeing such a large man in all black, with fashionably distressed vests, leather studded collars, and death metal band t-shirts driving a powder blue mini-van around the city is still a little hilarious. “Then I suppose you're allowed to come with us.”

“Thanks for the permission,” he says with a roll of those warm eyes. I match it with a roll of my own, but we know it's all in good fun. Sunday cannot come fast enough.

\----

It's so nice to go somewhere other than school or home. This chair has completely taken away my ability to roam as I wish. But sitting in the back seat, with Combeferre behind the wheel and Jehan playing DJ, I'm happy. Happy and nervous. With this leg, I'm sitting in the FAR back, as it's the only place I can stretch it out. Yet, Jehan sat in the middle row. We might look a bit odd, but I appreciate it; I don't feel quite so isolated this way. I may be sitting sideways, but I can only look ahead of us. 

He's been gone over a week now, and I wonder if there will be any changes yet. All we know for sure is that he'll be sober. According to the research I did on this place, not even mouthwash is allowed in. It seems to be nice and clean, though, and well-accredited. I would expect as much from something Combeferre picked out.

How's Grantaire adjusting, though? It has to be hard to do such a turn around so quickly. I know it's not over, his struggles with drinking won't be over for a long time to come. But I don't think he's gone this long without a drink since the moment I met him. I hope it's not weighting on him too heavily. Hopefully he's doing more than just sitting around. Maybe he's taking part in activities or something. At least reading. Will they allow him to paint? I hope so.

My nerves double by the time Jehan wheels me up to the door. We all pause before the threshold, causing the couple behind us to grumble and pass us by. “It's alright,” Combeferre speaks up. “He'll be happy to see us. It's just Grantaire.”

Yes, it's Grantaire. That's the problem.

The rehab center IS nice. It's all down in warm yellows and creams, and the receptionist signs us in, then directs us to the visiting area while she sends someone to tell Grantaire we're here. There are more people in the visiting area than I would have imagined. I try to figure out how many people are visiting and how many are patients. Is there truly that much of a need for rehabilitation in the country? I never would have guessed. I mentally mark it down on my list of things to look into once I'm home. Of the people I can pin as patients without wheeling around and looking at them, some look healthier than others. I assume that they've all been here for different time periods. Different degrees of happiness, too, though there seems to be no correlation between looking healthier and looking happier here. Not that I can measure that sort of thing, but I'm pretty certain in my observation skills.

“Hey.”

We all turn at the voice. Well, I more twist in my seat. Grantaire is just in the doorway, looking at us warily. He looks smaller, a little gaunt. Is that just me projecting my worries onto him, or has the stress caused rapid weight loss in him? Either way, he does NOT look healthy. There are heavy bags under his eyes, his hair looks like he hasn't combed it since he got here, and his face really is beat all to hell. Those bruises look like they're healing, but there's a cut on his lip and a scrape along his forehead. I want nothing more than to go stroke that messy hair back out of his face.

Then it's Jehan throwing themself at him, inspecting his face and holding him around the shoulders. He tells them it's okay, and lets them lead him over to the couch. Grantaire gives us a wave, and his eyes dart right over me. I'll have to try and not take it personally; this is a hard time for him. “I uh. Didn't except a welcome wagon like this.”

Combeferre gives him a smile and pats the couch for him to sit. “You know how we like to surprise. We practically had to draw straws to decide who got to come first.” It's true; after that meeting, everyone had come up to Jehan and expressed interest in first shift. “You'll be getting a new batch of visitors next week, so make sure everyone's on the list.”

“The list?” I ask. It occurs to me how little I know about how this sort of thing works. It's an important part of society; I should have a better grasp. Maybe after all of this I will.

“Oh, um, when I came in they wanted a list of people I'd accept visits from,” Grantaire says. He looks, more than anything, tired. He looks so, so tired. My chair is on his end of the couch, and I reach out to rest my non-injured hand on his arm, above the cast. I have to touch him, to really process that this IS Grantaire, and he's in this facility. For some reason, I'm still having trouble fully understanding it. “I think I put everyone on it.”

He reaches across himself; his hand nearly twitches, then he rests his hand on mine. Just a moment, then it's gone. “Oh, I forgot,” I say. In my lap is a folded lump. “I brought you your hoodie.”

I toss it into his lap, and he smiles a little. It's so nice to see. But then Grantaire takes the hoodie and drops it back into my lap. “Here, why don't you hold onto it for me until I get out? Don't let it get too clean, alright?”

“It will smell just as much like turpentine when you get out as it does now,” I promise. I've been sleeping in his hoodie, tugged down over my cast. But he doesn't need to know that. It probably smells more like me than him by now, anyways. Things fall awkwardly silent. None of us know what to say, and with any of us, that's unusual. Especially Grantaire. Usually he talks enough for the rest of us. But I suppose I can't blame him. 

It's Jehan who breaks the silence. “Oh, I forgot. They said you could have pictures...” They dig around in the big patchwork messenger bag they always carry around. It's unsurprising that they're having trouble finding anything; I've seen everything come out of that bag from dental dams to a living cactus. But finally they make a sound of triumph and pull out a square of thick paper. “Here! I went to the store and printed this out for you...”

Whatever is in the picture makes Grantaire's eyes light up. I lean over to see a picture of his dog, laying on his back and with his tongue lolling out. When I first heard that his dog was named 'Cheese Curd' I thought it was strange; after meeting the dog, I understood. Nothing else would have fit such a goofy little guy. He's not that little, but to me, all dogs are little. Even St. Bernards and Irish Wolfhounds. Most people wold assume that I'm a cat person, but I prefer the honesty of dogs. Grantaire gives a deep, rumbling laugh. I love his laugh, and this time I don't hide my smile. Usually I try all I can to make it clear that I am not looking for a relationship, even with Courfeyrac promising me that laughing at joke is NOT a marriage proposal. But I feel so close to being discovered when it comes to my feeling with Grantaire; they bubble so close to the surface that I only feel safe if I'm making a constant effort to come across as distinctly not interest. I falter a lot. And it's been getting worse lately. I miss when I was nothing but a statue to him. That was so much easier for me. It's not easy at all, being in love with him and trying to ignore or hide it, though, when he's being charming. Or just being. And right now, he is practically glowing. “Oh, look at him. He looks so happy! How's he doing?”

“He misses you. All he does is whine and try to get Oscar to cuddle with him. So now I have them both sleeping in my bed at night.” Jehan smiles and pats Combeferre's knee. “Poor man hardly fits in there with all of us. He sleeps mostly under me anyways.”

Well, at least they're not having sex much. According to Combeferre, Jehan is extremely understanding of his not very active libido. Not that I would expect anything less from them. Jehan is a good match for Combeferre, I think. They seem to be very happy. And yes, I am extremely jealous of their happiness. I just don't know if it's worth the struggle I'm used to a relationship being.

Especially when the only person I would want a relationship with is struggling so much on his own. I barely notice setting my hand back on his arm. “How's...the bed here?” It feels like a ridiculous question, but we're on the subject, sort of. “Is it comfortable?”

Thankfully, he groans and drops his head back. It's nice to see him act a bit more like himself. “I miss my bed, honestly. This one is just a twin. My queen at home is calling to me.” But then it fade, the joy in his voice. “I don't sleep much anyways. It's hard to stop thinking.”

Jehan squeezes his hand. “...it's rough on you here, isn't it?”

“Yeah. I just...I want to be home. I want to go out to get a burger. I want to play with Cheese Curd. I just want a fucking drink.” Grantaire's laugh is half of a sob that gets us some looks from the nearest people. “Shit. I'm just a fucking mess. I don't know if I made the right choice in coming here.”

“We're all proud of you,” I say, squeezing his arm. “We all think you're doing something very good for yourself. It's refreshing and relieving to see you finally standing up for yourself. You deserve that sort of thing.” Our eyes meet, and I feel something I have no explanation for. All I know is that I want to kiss him. Why can't I control myself? 

He shrugs and takes his eyes from mine. “I don't know. Nice that someone is glad I'm here.”

“We miss you, though. We're all taking it in turns to come visit you, like I said.” Combeferre nods. “So we'll be in rotation. Everyone wants to tell you how much we support you. I know it's hard on you, but we're all behind you.”

“I'll try to remember that.” Grantaire gives each of us a smile. “It means a lot.”

Conversation comes much easier after that. He tells us a bit about life here, but mostly we update him on what we've been up to. He even asks me about Les Amis. I wonder if he honestly cares, or if he's only asking because he knows it's 50% of my life. Well. 60%. School is important; the world is far more so. I'm glad to answer him, though. 

Grantaire's the one to wheel me out, but he pauses once Combeferre and Jehan are out the door to the reception area. I twist around to look at him, and Grantaire is just looking at me. He looks concerned. “Hey, Enjolras. Uhm. That last day I was at your place...do you remember much of that?”

“Not a lot of it. Just earlier in the morning, and then after you left.” Did something happen? I still have no clue why he left the way he did.

“Oh. Okay. I. I don't either. Those pills are a kicker. So I was just wondering.” Then he's pushing me out the door, back to the others.

\----

I don't see him again for a month. With the large amount of people that want to see him, this will only be my last chance to visit him if we want to be fair. At the end of this month, he'll be free. It's seemed both too long of a time and too short of a time. By the time my next visit rolls around, I'm anxious to visit him. Everyone has come back from their visits with updates on him, but nothing is like actually speaking to the man.

Yet, I hardly recognize Grantaire when I see him next. We've brought him a treat, warm burgers from his favourite fast-food joint, and we all settle at a table. Grantaire's healing, his wrist even looks better. His hair is clean, combed, and he looks very good with it so long. The side are growing out a bit, and Jehan's laughter as they run their fingers through the stubble makes me want to touch, too. He seems to be putting the weight back on. He's smiling a little more. And his appetite is ferocious; those burgers never stood a chance. We should have brought another. 

When the burgers are gone, he sits back in his chair. “Wow. Thanks, that meant a lot...uh, obviously.” His laugh this time is truer, more honest than the last time we were here. “Gavroche brought me gummy worms last week, and now this? You're spoiling me.”

“Wait until you get out,” Jehan promises. “We're throwing you a party.”

“And ruining the surprise!”

I'm so thrilled that he's having a good time, throwing his head back, clapping Combeferre on the back. I just watch him talk with the others for a couple minutes. His eyes are brighter, too, and his skin even looks clearer. Is it only the lack of alcohol in his system that has this effect, or is it something else? He's in therapy here, and if that's having such a positive effect on him, I hope that he continues with it after. I know starting my therapy really helped me out in ways I never expected, and mental health is a cause close to my heart. I've been researching therapy within centers like this, lately, and doing a lot of reading on CBT. It's all fascinating, really, and just the other night I was up late on video call with Combeferre discussing the philosophy of it.

“Enjolras? What are you staring at?”

I jolt. As things come back to me, I notice that it's just Grantaire and I at the table. “Huh? Where are...?”

“They went to the soda machine. Where were _you_?” He reaches over and, this time, takes my hand. It's gentle and brief, and I miss his touch once it's gone.

“I was just thinking. About you. You look good. This place seems to be treating you well.” I can't control myself; I reach for his hand again, our arms diagonal across the table. I run my thumb over his knuckles, healed over for the first time I can ever remember. His skin is warm and pleasantly rough. Slowly, almost artfully, his fingers close around mine. I watch his nails, his knuckles, and flip my own hand over to let his fingers travel up my palm. Then, suddenly, I realize what I'm doing; my hand closes into a loose fist. “I'm glad.”

His dark eyes are deep, and I cannot see what is hidden in them. He lets his hand rest next to mine. “Just a month left now.”

“Just a month. What..what are you going to do when you're back outside?”

“Back outside?” His laughter breaks the quiet tension. “This isn't jail, Apollo. But I think I'll just...go back to life before. Well. Almost.”

“...do you still miss drinking?” I ask, voicing the question all of us have had since this thing began. No one has asked him yet, but the words will not remain in my mouth; they must be released.

“Every day,” he answers easily. “But I'm learning to control it. Learning how to cope, learning that I CAN live without it. Even if I don't want to.”

“I'm so proud of you,” I whisper.

“I need to know that.”

“We come bearing juice!” Jehan's voice rings out, and four bottles are plopped down in front of us. They sit down with Combeferre, both chattering away, oblivious. I'm not mad. They haven't interrupted anything. But I can't wipe the smile off of my face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't finding much on rehab in France, so I just used my knowledge of how it works in America for this chapter! Back to Grantaire next time!


	15. Ch. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all so much - over 1000 hits! That's way more than I ever expected. We're back to Grantaire's POV!
> 
> warning: this chapter is extremely cheesy

Grantaire

It's nothing like in the movies, being released back into the world. But usually that's from jail, not rehab. In the movies, our convict is released into a blue sky, birds chirping, and completely on his own. He feels free. He is confident in taking that first step towards a new life. Nervous but ready, so ready, for freedom and everything that this big bright world has to offer.

That always seemed stupid to me. And today, I know that it is completely ridiculous.

Today, it's raining. Heavily. I move not through a thick metal door to the big, bright world, but through a regular wooden one into a reception area. And it is not empty. There's a receptionist, some attendants. And by the door, backlit from light reflecting off the rain in each window leading back to all the shit that drove me to this place to begin with - Jehan, Combeferre, and Enjolras. I hardly want to go talk to them, and think that perhaps I would have much more enjoyed heading home alone, but Jehan bustles up to me, face bright despite the tears staining their cheeks. They've dyed their hair, a green ombre - with their brickish, brown-orange-red hair, it looks almost ivy clinging up a building. It's probably exactly what they were aiming for. Behind them is Combeferre, looking as solid and sturdy as ever with an almost knowing smile on his face. And he's pushing Enjolras, my dear Enjolras, who gives me the softest smile I have ever seen. His face is finally healed, and that alone makes him look so much better. His leg and arm are still in casts, and he's still wearing heavy hoodies - there's no way to bind with his arm like that, I guess. I noticed the unseasonably thick hoodies last time he was here, and figured out that THAT must be the reason. I spent a lot of time thinking about my friends over the past two months - imagining what they were doing, at school, at work, doing their social work, just spending time together. It's far easier than thinking about myself. That might be an 'unhealthy thought pattern' or whatever my therapist talks about, but it's true. Concentrating too much on my own problems and negativity is half of what got me here, I think. I wish I knew what she had thought about me saying that, but the woman is an enigma. She was always nice, though. I think I'll miss her. In my back pocket is a list of outside therapists that she recommends I keep seeing. And the thing is, I'm sort of looking forward to researching them. 

"Grantaire," Jehan says gently, throwing their arms around my waist. I can feel them nearly buzzing with excitement, and have a feeling they're controlling themself only for a short time. I return their embrace, let them nuzzle their face into my chest. "Look at you! Are you ready to go home?"

"Yeah. I really, really am." I just want my own bed and my dog. Combeferre insists on taking my duffel bag, and Enjolras even takes my backpack to set it in his lap. My protests go unheard, and an umbrella is shoved into my hands before we step outside.

Jehan laughs and tucks their hair into their hoodie. "What a lovely welcome back for you!"

"Oh yes," Combeferre says with a chuckle. He claps me on the back. "I'm sure you've been craving the rain."

"Actually." My wrist is feeling much better, almost back to one hundred percent by now, and it's easy to pop the umbrella open. I hover that one over Jehan and myself while Combeferre opens one for Enjolras and himself. His van isn't parked terribly far away, but even a couple seconds in this rain would soak us to the bone. "What I'm really craving is pad thai. There was a woman in there I made friends with, her parents moved here from Thailand, and she told me all about the food she was missing in rehab. Really made me want some."

As sort of expected, Jehan jumps all over themself to promise that we'll order anything I want. We all load into the minivan, and I help Enjolras into the backseat while Combeferre folds up the wheelchair. "I'm surprised that you haven't murdered anyone yet; this has to be driving you crazy."

"That is only because I am physically incapable of murder right now," he huffs as I help him turn and rest his foot on a pillow left in the backseat. I pull away, but he reaches out and takes my wrist. That smile is still there, and it brings out a smile in me. "I missed you, Grantaire."

"Missed you too, Apollo." What's going on here? I've seen him like this with the others, but not me. Not when he wasn't drugged up...well, that's not true. He can be very sweet and honest. I'm just not used to seeing it. I'll take it happily, though. 

We all load into the car, and it quickly becomes a loud affair. I had worried that things would be quiet and awkward, but it's nothing of the sort. In fact, on the surface, it feels as if nothing's changed. I know it has. I know that my entire dynamic has changed, but I am grateful for the outward appearance. I have changed, I know that. I am more aware of myself. I am learning to question my own decisions before I make them. Looking too closely at myself is terrifying, but I do find that it's easier to keep myself from spiraling out of control if I just take a minute to think. Of course, I haven't had a chance to really test it, not out in the real world, but I'm sure that it will happen soon enough. With the way my life goes, I'll probably be using those techniques the doctor taught me before going to bed tonight. 

Getting out of the elevator onto my floor is a blessing. The door opens to the familiar scent that is so distinctly "home" - paint, turpentine, cat, weed, and frankincense. But the smell is not what I care about. No, what I care about almost knocks me over with the force of his tackle, barking up a storm, and dragging me down to the floor for kisses and nuzzles. I block the doorway as I hug Cheese Curd around the neck, ruffle his ears, scratch his neck, but everyone else is already in. Who cares if a neighbour sees me? I'm sobbing and that doesn't even bother me. I'm just so happy to have Cheese Curd back in my arms, and he's happy to see me. The rolling and cuddling goes on until he flops on his back, tongue lolling out. "You been a good boy while Daddy was gone?"

He gives a loud 'BOOF' and I laugh. But I have to pull myself off of the floor. Enjolras is watching me from the kitchen door, where he seems to have been abandoned. I rub the back of my head, and he hides a chuckled behind his hand. "Have to say, you couldn't do that to Victor."

That makes me laugh."I could try, but he would probably hate it. I could twirl his bowl around. You mind?" After he nods, I wheel him over to be closer to the couch, which is where I collapse. Cheese jumps right up to lay over my lap, and I let him. "Didn't expect such a welcome wagon. Not him. You folks. I guess just Jehan."

"Everyone wanted to come, but that sounded awfully overwhelming. Do expect a party, though; Courf is already planning it. He wants to get exotic dancers and everything." Enjolras rolls his eyes, but I can tell it's affectionate. He bends over to pat Cheese Curd's head, and my dog lavishes in the affection. I can't blame him; I feel the same way when Enjolras touches me.

I shake my head. "Might be a good distraction at a party where I can't drink, right?"

"Well, now that you mention it...can you imagine Marius' face if we did, though?" Enjolras is almost jovial today, and I want to bask in it. 

"Wait - are we talking uh. Exotic dancers WITH pasties or the kind that don't need them?" As open-minded as Marius is, he's young, naive, and possibly the straightest man I've ever met. Enjolras' mouth twitches and I wonder for a moment if I've said something transphobic - after all, sometimes I do without meaning to and he can be particularly sensitive, I don't always know what is and isn't okay to say to distinguish bodies _with_ breasts and bodies with _out_ breasts - but then he laughs again.

He pushes his hair back from his face. "Honestly, the kind that don't wear them might be kinder. He doesn't fare well faced with a chest and curved hips."

"Are we teasing Marius?" Combeferre asks as he comes in from my bedroom. He must have been bringing my bag in. The backpack is still in Enjolras' lap. "You missed him nearly faint when some newcomer at a meeting said something fatphobic and Chetta pulled her shirt off to ask him if stretchmarks like hers bothered him so much, she hoped he never knocked anybody up, because that person would get them too. Marius caught sight of her bra and nearly had a nosebleed."

Enjolras rolls his eyes affectionately. Still, mentioning Les Amis gets them telling me all about the things I've missed. They're apparently planning a protest against local immigration laws or policies or something. Protests, really? I'm tired already. My parents were immigrants, both of them moving to Paris from Istanbul to get married, so my friends always think that I will rally with them for the cause. When have I ever rallied for anything? But I let them talk happily until the food arrives - it's nice to hear them talking, to hear ANYONE talking about anything that isn't addiction and self-deception and recovery. It's nearly to impossible to think that my life was nothing but /that/ for two months.

I suppose I can't avoid it forever though. As we relax afterwards, full of rice and noodles, Jehan takes my hand. They massage it with their own, and I find it extremely comforting. "So," they start quietly. "Is it weird to be out yet?"

"Not yet," I admit. I wish I could avoid talking about it, but maybe I can just. Get it over with. "I have yet to really process all of this. The doctor said that would happen, though. I had just really started to get used to the place. Not that I'm not grateful to be back home. And back on my own schedule. Almost everything there was planned."

Combeferre nods. "And for you, the lest scheduled man on the planet, I'm sure that was tragic."

"It was. I guess I understand why they do it that way, but it doesn't mean I liked it any better. But now I can have 'recreation' when I want, eat when I want, lights out when I want. This just feels like freedom." And that scares me. I don't say that, of course. Yet, I squeeze Jehan's hand, and I think they understand.

"It will take a lot of getting used to," they say. "But I'm sure you'll be back to it in no time."

"I hope so. They uhm. Gave me some resources to help me apply the stuff we talked bout in there, out here. In that bag, Enjolras? There should be a binder."

He grabs up my backpack, which has been discarded to the side, and unzips the top of it. He pulls out a binder that's covered in names - signed by the people I got along with best in the center. As the very edge comes out, something else slips out of the bag. A small gray raccoon flops into Enjolras' lap. "Oh. You...brought this?"

Our eyes meet. "...yeah. Just uh. Seemed like a way to make it. I don't know. Homier there?"

"That's nice." His words and gaze make me feel warm. I find that I cannot tear my eyes from his; I do not even want to, in any case. There's something in his eyes. He looks happy to see me, still. He looks proud of me. All three of them do. Even Cheese Curd does. And I feel a little proud of myself, too.

I explain to them a few of the things we went over in the center, but can't keep it up for long. I don't really like to talk about it, and I know that everyone will ask so I have to pace myself. But I say what I can - the basics of the therapy, some of the group activities. I honestly did not mind some of the people there. It was a strange environment, but everyone knew why every other person was there, to at least some degree, so there was no shame. We even joked about our addictions, about the problem that tied us all together. I could appreciate that - while it might be a serious problem, I get so tired of speaking seriously about it. The opportunity to make dark jokes about drinking mouth wash, waking up in places we had never scene, and getting deliveries of things we have no recollections of ordering. Of course we would talk about our problems among ourselves, but the jokes were as good for me as airing out dirty laundry, I think. There's one picture of me and a few people I had connected with during the program.

"I knew that you wouldn't be there for more than a couple days without making friends," Jehan says happily, taking the picture and inspecting it. They smile at each face, and I point out the woman that gave me my craving for pad thai (which I had completely destroyed the moment it arrived.) "Will you try to keep in contact with them?"

"I don't know. I'm supposed to find a support system for this sort of thing, people who've been through it. But I don't want to go to any sort of meetings - after all, I just interrupt yours." I think I'm the only one who laughs. "I was uh. Honestly thinking of asking Feuilly. I was wondering, though, if you all thought that sort of thing might bring up some bad memories for zir? I know ze kicked meth and not booze, and it was ages ago, but still. I wanna talk to someone I already know, but if it would bother zir..."

Jehan passes my photo back. Their looking at me with something in their eyes that I cannot label, cannot name. It's nothing I've seen before, and I'll have to ask them about it once we're left alone. "It can't hurt to ask. Feuilly loves you, I'm sure that if ze can help, ze will."

Thinking about it makes me kind of sick. After all, Feuilly kicked a meth habit all on zir own, just by zir own bravery. Ze didn't need anything like I did - no therapy, no support system. Well, maybe. None of us know much about how ze got through it. Maybe it would help zir to talk about it. I don't know; it's something I spent the last month thinking about. "We'll see. It's a lot to think about."

It is. There's so, so much to think about. I'm terrified, and terrified to TELL anybody of how scared I truly am. Everyone seems so damned optimist about this, about my ability to stay sober. What if I disappoint them all? How can I do this when I am no longer sure I want to? Is it worth the struggle? I should want to be better. And I did, when I asked to be brought in...but after learning how hard it will be, am I still ready? I don't know. I feel as if I don't know anything. It's all overwhelming. Jehan and Combeferre excuse themselves to take care of the leftovers and something about taking the garbage out, something about complaining of how the garbage chute is blocked and they have to go all the way to the basement, but I hardly notice. 

A hand slips into mine, fingers short and palm wide. Enjolras' hand now seems so common in mine, and yet my heart still races. I look from his hand, up to his face. He is looking at me seriously, yet not unkindly. "You've gone very quiet."

"I'm just. Trying to wrap my head around this. I don't know if I have in my to do...any of this. I don't think I truly understood the struggle this sort of undertaking would be when I..." I hold up the binder, then let it fall to the coffee table. I groan and drop my head against the back of the couch. I don't want to seem so weak in front of him. But then I remember him crying on me on his bathroom floor; he must have felt much the same. "I may have jumped into this too quickly."

"I believe that you have the strength to do this." Enjolras squeezes my hand. "I believe that with all that I am, Grantaire. You are the most stubborn man that I have ever met - if this is something you put your mind to, you can do it. We all believe that you can do this."

"But what if _I_ don't? I don't believe in anything." I drag tired eyes from the ceiling back to his face.

"I believe in you."

I just stare at him, unsure of how to respond. Enjolras finds so many things to believe in, things that I do think are important even if I don't always think that he handles it well, or if I fight him on them, or argue opposing points. He has so many things that he thinks are important enough to believe in. And I am one of them. The wetness in my eyes embarrasses me. "Will you even when I do things not worth believing in? Will you believe in me when I fail? When I falter?"

"Come here." Enjolras urges me closer to him, cups my face in his hand. He pushes himself up and presses our foreheads together. His eyes become all I can see, blurry in their proximity. "Hercule Grantaire. I will always believe in you, because there will always be things within you worth believing in."

His breath is against my lips, and he is no longer addled by the painkillers. I am not thinking when I inch my face forward and capture his lips on mine, just that I need something, and that perhaps I can find whatever it is in between his lips. I nearly pull away, but his hand slips around to the back of my neck, and then he is kissing me back. 

Our mouths move gently against each other, soft and slow. It is exploration, finding my way through uncharted territory without a map. We must keep leaned towards each other, over the arms of both the couch and his chair, and I put my hand on his shoulder to balance us. He tilts his head just so, and I make the smallest sound when he deepens the kiss. I could live in this moment forever.

When he pulls away, after what felt like a lifetime but couldn't have been more than fifteen seconds, he does not go far. He remains within kissing distance, and I can nearly feel his lips move as he speaks, eyes open just enough to see. "I...this isn't a good time for this," he whispers. "You're not even 24 hours out of rehabilitation..."

"For this?" My heart is racing, now that I once more in control of my body. I do not pull away, either. "What...what IS this...?"

"I don't know. Something you shouldn't worry over. Worry about yourself, worry about healing..." But then we are kissing again, and I do not know which of us initiated. It's hungrier this time, on both parts, and it's hard to pull away. "I'm sorry...I shouldn't have."

My hand moves up to tangles fingers in his hair. "I kissed you first."

"We should talk about this." Our eyes meet and he gives my cheek a kiss this time; it means just as much. "You're going through too much for this sort of thing..."

"Can we talk tomorrow? They'll be back soon enough, let's just...not worry. I've been worried for months. Lucien, if...whatever this is, is a real...thing, just..." Our mouths collide again, and I know that he is right about this. For once I fully agree that Enjolras is right. This is not a good time for whatever is happening between us. But right now, until I hear footsteps coming down the hall, none of that matters. Only his mouth on mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!


	16. Ch. 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot of fun to write! Only one or two left after this, depending!

I agree to a party; I really do want to see everyone. No one's apartment is big enough for all of us, so Combeferre rents out the room Les Amis meets in, on my first Saturday night out of the center. I've seen a few of my friends since then, but this is our first time all together. Everything is covered in a layer of snow, as fitting to the beginning of December, and it crunches pleasantly beneath my sneakers.

This is honestly a little nerve-wracking, but I'm excited. When I walk through the cafe with Jehan, Mme. Houcheloup greets me with a warm hug, a kiss, and a plastic container full of cookies. She own the cafe, and while she mostly rolls her eyes at the antics of my friends, she's always seemed rather fond of me. Her whisper - "I'm very proud of you." - chokes me up far more than I want to admit. I take the cookies and thank her, then let Jehan lead me towards the back room. 

There are streamers up, and table clothes that look like they might be patterned with little dinosaurs. There's a big banner that says "Great job, R!" in Feuilly's elegant hand hanging over the windows. One long table along the wall is full of food - ordered in pizzas, homemade alfredo, cheese blintzes, all of my favourites - and music is pumping from Courfeyrac's bright green laptop. We seem to be the last ones to arrive, and that was probably the plan. But no one jumps up at me when we come in.

Well, until Gavroche sees me. He pops up from the table, abandoning his pizza and coming to throw his arms around me. Despite his small stature and skinny torso, he knocks the breath out of me. I manage a laugh anyways. "You just saw me last night!"

He just looks up and narrows his eyes at me. "That was _hours_ ago...oh! you cut your hair."

I run my hands through it. I had needed a trim before I left, and after two months the sides had grown out. My hair has always grown fast, and usually I just keep up the same style. Now, though the long mohawk is gone, leaving a slightly shaggy mess curling around my ears. "What? You don't like it?"

"Your old hair was more badass."

"I gotta agree," Éponine says. "Jehan, did you do this to him?"

"Today." The reach up and pat my hair. "He said he wanted a fresh look for his fresh start. I tried to talk him into dying it, but he wouldn't listen."

"Not my style," I laugh. I pat Gavroche on the head and attempt to extract myself from his grasp. "Here, why don't you let me go? I'm starving!"

I can't even make it through the room; before I get to the food, Chetta has her arms wrapped around me. Hardly taller than Gavroche but with a much bigger frame, she really does nearly knock me off balance. I hug her back, ruffling that mess of curls she calls hair. Unsurprisingly, two other impacts follow, growing in height as Joly tackles me from one side, then Bossuet from the other side. It's a joyful pile, but when we pull apart I see that Bossuet has a bruise on his forehead. "What happened this time?"

"...knitting accident."

"How in the...? The bruise is the size of a baseball!" I missed this, laughing easily. It's enough to, however temporarily, make me glad that I started this. Bossuet tells me the story as we wander over to the food. I'm hungrier than ever now, and I load up two plates. At the end of the table, I have enough food to make up another human being, but no more understanding as to how knitting bruised the man up so badly.

We sit at a table that is occupied only by Marius and the beauty that I was starting to believe didn't truly exist. "My my, is this the poor woman who you've been hounding? I can see why."

Marius turns red, but Cosette just laughs, pink hair flouncing about her face. "Don't let him fool you - I was the one doing the hounding." They're holding hands across the table, and I see a small infinity symbol on her wrist. She's far too cute for Marius, but she looks at him with glowing eyes. "He didn't realize I was flirting for a month."

"Hey, be nice," Marus says with a laugh. "Or I'll uninvite you tomorrow."

"You would not. It sounds fun!"

"What's tomorrow?" I ask through a mouth full of cheese and noodles. I don't even bother looking at what I eat as it gets forked into my mouth - it's all good. I'm already eyeing a covered dish that I'm hoping is Bahorel's famous Blemon cake. It's a lemon cake with layers of frosting and blueberries between each section of cake. Blueberry Lemon. Blemon. It sounds like a Pokémon, except far more delicious.

"The first night of Hanukkah!" Marius chirps. "The Jewish Student Union is doing a celebration and I invited Cosette!"

"...already? Wow. It didn't feel like I was in there all that long..." I muse on that while the others talk about the celebration and what it involves. It's not that I'm not interested, I just cannot believe that Hanukkah is already starting. It really is near the end of the year, isn't it? I sort of forgot that time had continued out here while I was in the center. I've missed a lot. I look around the room. On the surface, nothing has changed. Combeferre is feeding Jehan a bite of alfredo with disgusting sweetness. Éponine is trying to get Gavroche to eat something not covered in grease. Feuilly is struggling with one corer of the banner that refuses to stay, and Bahorel hoists zir onto his shoulders so ze can actually reach. Enjolras, now in a soft sling and with his arm wrapped in compression bandages, no more hard cast, is discussing something with Courfeyrac. He looks up, as if he can feel my gaze, and our eyes meet. Our smiles come in unison; he has no more forgotten our kisses than I have. We have yet to discuss all the things that need to, but even the nerves over when that moment comes cannot put a damper on how truly happy I am.

It's a great party, honestly, but I find it impossible to not think about how, normally, everyone would have a drink in their hand. It means a lot that they did that, just as it means a lot that Jehan cleared out our house according to rehab center rules. I don't expect everyone to stop drinking for me, but for now? It's appreciated. I'm too on edge lately. This past week or so since I've been home has been the hardest test I've ever taken. So far, I haven't been left alone much; I'm terrified for what will happen when things settle down and I am left to my own devices.

But, at least for now, I am surrounded by everyone that I love. The food on the table dwindle and people sort of meander to the dance floor; Courf is the one who grabs me. He's been suspiciously quiet all night, and when he moves with me - all jerky motions compared to my grantedly smoother ones - I notice him watching me curiously, eyebrows furrowed, eyes questioning. As if I am a mystery he's trying to solve. Finally he stares long enough that even I'm uncomfortable. "What, did you forget how handsome I was in such little time?"

"How could I ever?! I'm just thinking." He lowers himself, then raises himself up, and I have no clue if he's dancing or just inspecting me from different angles. "Something's different. About you..."

"Well, yeah -" "No. Not that. Between you and...."

He turns us in time with the fast paced pop music, scanning our friends. I just let him do it, peering at everyone he can over my shoulder. He stops suddenly, and his eyes widen briefly before narrowing in a dangerous way. Those lips curl up towards his eyes. "You sly dog. You sly, beautiful dog."

"Whu?" I turn to follow his gaze and see it on Enjolras, who's being turned around the floor by Cosette and having quite a time pretending that hes not enjoying it. Even across the room I can see his smile as he twists in his chair, trying to look her in the eye.

Courf claps me heavily on the back. "You finally did it! I'm proud of you, man. You kissed him! "

Damn this man and his magical powers. I wheel around and clap my hand over his mouth; that doesn't stop him from laughing, a joyful yet cocky sound that is so essentially Courfeyrac. "Courf, you...you can't tell anyone! NO one can know, alright?"

"...really?" His mirth fades from his face, and he looks at me with concern. "Not gonna lie, I always expected that, when the two of you got together, you would be shouting it from the rooftops. Sending out cards in the mail and passing out cigars. Is it all...okay?"

In the middle of this pretend dance floor, with the music pounding and all of our friends, I stop moving. "You know what? I. I think so."

"That's the spirit!" he shouts, clapping me on the shoulder. "I expect a card and a cigar anyways!"

"You don't smoke," I remind him as we take up the beat again.

"Semantics!"

It does feel nice to have someone know, though. Especially Courfeyrac. He's just always a good guy to have on my side. 

I take a break an hour later, after making rounds with everyone I can get to, and flop into a chair. A heavy hand falls on my back. Then another, and I can tell by the skilled motions that Bahorel's back there. "Huh," he says. "A lot less tense than last time! Great job!"

The rough clap on the back makes me choke on my water. "J-jesus, Bahorel!" I sputter, dotting my jeans with water droplets.

"Sorry!" He gives a rough, booming laugh that fills the room. "How's it hanging, man?"

I tip my bottle of water at him; the liquid sloshes around inside of thin plastic. My name has been scrawled on the label in green sharpie, and a thick 'G' is on the cap. I've seen Joly wandering around with a pocketful of Sharpies; _that_ was what he was doing with them. "Well, I'm full of pizza and at a party for myself, so how can I be anything but good?"

"Guess you're right! So, you think you're gonna keep boxing?" he asks.

"Definitely. Supposed to be keeping busy, I guess. Might have to pick up some new hobbies! Don't need my therapist hunting me down."

"Maybe it's not my place," Bahorel says carefully, hands still moving against my back. "But maybe, if you want, you could assist Feuilly. Ze's teaching a painting class at a rec center and ze's really pushing zir limits with it. The kids in it are real young and stuff, it's just for fun, but with all the other stuff on Feuilly's plate, I think ze needs some help with it. You're an artist, so maybe you could think about it? Ze's pushing zirself too much at is it."

I do like the idea, but that can wait. Turning in my seat, I give him a grin. "All this sudden concern about Feuilly, huh? What're you saying? There a little hanky-panky going on in Bahorel-land?"

"We're not talking about that," he says smoothly. Damn. Those past two months wasted, time I've fallen out of practice; it's dulled my schmoozing abilities. "Should I tell zir to ask you? Ze doesn't even have to know that we talked first, if that's make you feel more comfortable."

Part of me wants to say no. But...I do adore Feuilly, and ze does work too hard as it is. And I definitely don't have my dog walking job anymore, so what else do I have going on? Teaching wee ones to paint could be fun, and they'll probably be adorable. "...alright. Tell zir to hit me up if ze's interested."

"Great!" He slips his arms round my neck and gives me a big hug; his beard scratches against my ear and cheek. "Alright! What do you say we cut into that cake?"

"I love it when you talk dirty to me."

We shut most of the lights off and gather everyone round the cake. Everyone's looking at me as I take the lid off. The cake is round, frosted white, with blueberries edging it. In a light blue icing, it simply says 'Great job!', and that's enough for me. But everyone is still watching me, and I feel like maybe I should say something. "Uhm. This really means a lot. I mean, I'm just at the bottom of the mountain, and I might be climbing it for the rest of my life. But I wouldn't even be here without my team. You've all done a lot for me, more than I can ever say. Jehan, thank you, especially. You've done more for me than I think even I comprehend." They blush, but they're beaming. "But you all mean more to me than all the booze in the world. I think I'm supposed to be doing this for me, but goddammit if it isn't for you, too."

"Hear, hear!" Courf shouts. He presses a knife into my hand, and under the sound of applause, I cut the cake.

Unsurprisingly, that cake is not long for this world. I eat two and a half pieces, sharing with Gavroche, and by the time those are gone, the entire cake is. I tell Gavroche, that's what happens when Blemon cake is brought into a room: everything pauses until it's gone. He just nods, his face covered in frosting.

"Alright, everyone," Courf announces loudly, in a deep, smooth voice that also manages to be completely ridiculous. "We're gonna slow things down; everybody grab a partner and get on the floor."

We laugh. What are we, fifteen? But he is dead serious, and points to Combeferre. "Lead by example; grab Jehan and get out here."

No one can really say no. As Combeferre leads Jehan out towards the laptop, which is blasting something low and romantic and probably sappy as hell, I notice Marius offer his hand to Cosette. When she reaches out to take it, Gavroche swoops in and clasps it instead. A laugh ripples through the room as Cosette politely informs Marius she's trading up and flounces out to dance with Gavroche. 

And then someone is next to me. Courfeyrac has abandoned his station at the laptop and instead, has taken it upon himself to wheel Enjolras right over to me. "Hey!" Courf says, "What a coi- yes, Marius? You want ME to dance with you?!"

Marius looks up in confusion. "What? I didn't say any-"

"Alright, alright, if you insist!" And there he goes, wandering off like a majestic kite fluttering in the wind.

Enjolras meets my gave, and we match each others smiles. But that means they're equally wary. He glances to Courf, then back to me. "He...knows?"

"He knows."

We both give him a look. Now that it's just us, sort of, I'm nervous. So I blurt out the first words that pop into my head. "So. Do you wanna dance?"

He might be smiling. "Well. I would say yes, but I'm not sure how easy it would be...we wouldn't even be facing each other."

I don't mean to laugh at how he glowers at his chair, but it's adorable. "Here. Hook your arm around my shoulders."

I lean over and he does so. Between his uninjured leg and my pulling, it's easy to get him up. "Just lean on me," I murmur, hooking my arms firmly around his waist. His grip on me is tight, but not so much that his broken arm is squished between us. "Put that foot on the ground, just like that, and lean against me. There we go. Let me do it."

We more sway than turn; that's all we really can do. Maybe we really are fifteen years old. But I don't mind; I am so, so very happy. When I think that this could not possibly be any better, he rests his head on my chest. We move slowly, our friends around us. Chetta whirls by with Éponine, and I spot poor Marius doing a very confused quasi-tango with Courf. 

But nothing can permeate the bubble surrounding Enjolras and I. We move together, my feet doing the work, our hearts beating together. Even though we are surrounded by people, he is the only thing that exists. Only his arm around me, his toes colliding with mine. His hair in my face. "Enjolras?"

"Yes?" His voice is as quiet as mine. He tips his face towards me once more, but does not pull away. Only our different heights keep us from being face to face once more. 

I rub small circles in his back. "Your visits meant a lot. Seeing you in there really made the weeks easier to get through."

"I looked forward to them. I...looked forward to you getting you out. And dammit, Grantaire. I looked forward to this..." The spell is breaking. "But we still need to talk. We have a lot to discuss. I feel guilty."

"Guilty? Why...?" I cannot comprehend _what_ he could feel guilty over. He's done nothing except fulfill my wildest dreams. Sort of. The kisses were magical, but I suppose I'm worried. And I still know that everything hes been saying is true.

He presses his face to my chest again. "I feel like...perhaps I'm taking advantage of you, in this upheaval in your life. I don't know where you are, and I shouldn't complicate things for you."

"...it's okay, Enjolras. This...might be a good complicated?" A nod into my sweater. "So...we can feel it out. We'll get together, just you and I..."

"And figure out where to go from here." 

Can he feel my heart racing against my chest? I nod, this time. "And figure out where to go from here. I just know...either way, or whatever happens, we'll always have this moment."

"Always and forever," he whispers. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at the feeling in his voice. Enjolras is passionate about everything in his life; why would this be any different? I am lucky, for once, to be on the receiving end of that passion.

As our words fall quiet, I realize that the song is fading. Before I do anything too ridiculous, I help Enjolras back into the chair, and he thanks me. I find a chair of my own and drag it over to him, and soon enough the others gather around us, in one large, disjointed conversation. It's a comforting chaos, paying attention to so many topics - a movie here, a protest there, more events from the past two months that I've missed. In the midst of it all, I feel a hand on my knee, too large to be Enjolras'. It's Jehan's lips that find my cheek.

"How are you holding up?" they ask. "You seem well, but if you want to go home..."

"No, no. This is perfect." I'm grateful that they checked up on me; I spent all day telling them how nervous I was, how worried I was that it would be too overwhelming. "I'm having a great time, honestly."

"I'm so glad. This has been a wonderful night."

I can't help but agree. We all stay out far too late, and even without a single drink, Jehan and I are still driving home by the light of the sunrise. Bed seems too far away; we both collapse on the couch. I barely find time to kick my shoes off before I hear them snoring. I'm almost too tired to sleep. But when I do close my eyes, all I see is gold.


	17. Ch. 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, folks, only a chapter and an epilogue left!

It's 5 a.m. on a Tuesday and I am not asleep. I am not in my bed. Hell, I'm not even in my apartment. Instead I am sitting on a bench downtown, in the cold early morning air, looking at my hands and shaking. I'm nibbling on a bagel - onion, coated in thick cream cheese - from some early morning cafe and just trying to control myself. I don't know if I can. Rehab doesn't prepare you for the real world; I don't care what they say.

And the thing is, nothing really happened. 

Sunday was alright, spent recuperating from the party; it's a lot easier when there's no hangover. But Monday, today - technically yesterday, but can it really be yesterday if I haven't slept yet? - was rough. IS rough. Jehan offered to stay home from work, but I told them not to be ridiculous. They had taken off all last week and since they're the only one with some income, it's not a good idea. I know that things are getting thin, and that I need to find some way to make money other than boxing, since that's not always a guarantee. A little nagging voice says that I do have family, aunts and uncles from my mother's rich side of the family, who cut my parents off but still send me a Christmas card every year. But I never talk to them. They know nothing about me, and I know nothing about them. I couldn't ask them for anything...well, at least not yet. They're a back up, for if I can't find a single other way to make money. I'll ask if I have to - I can't keep letting Jehan down. I have to do something.

But in order to _do_ something, I need to _find_ something, anything to keep me from spiraling like I did today. It was a tough time. No trigger, nothing to set me off. Just...thinking. Thinking too much, about everything. But mostly about how terrifying this is. I didn't realize, no truth about my situation truly sunk in, until I was in a room full of people - thirteen of them, not to mention Mme. Houcheloup - who all believe in me. How terrifying it will be to fail. It might be easier, preferable, to just relapse now and get it over with. Even if no one else sees it in my future, I do. We were TOLD, I was specifically told at the center, that it usually takes more than one try to beat an addiction. So maybe I could just. Jump start it.

And besides, I just want a drink. Being back in _my_ home, surrounded by _my_ things, just makes me want _my_ routine. It's not that I was even feeling badly, or upset. I just ate lunch, and I'm used to having some sort of drink with lunch. So when I didn't, with no one to distract me but the animals, it really hit home. This could be life now. A sober life before me is as terrifying as a drunken death. I could go the rest of my life without ever touching a drop of anything stronger than grape juice again. And that sounds terrible. I just want a drink, to feel liquid comfort and fall back into who I am.

But this is dangerous territory, a sea quickly growing stormy. I should call someone before the waves overtake me. I should have called someone 12 hours ago. These feelings, these urges, could all be squashed while Jehan was home, was up and telling me all about their day. But once they went to bed? Everything went to hell, sad and miserable and making me anxious. I tried to find something to do. 

Of course I have my list, worn already, of things to do instead when I want a drink: go to the gym. Paint. Play with Cheese Curd. Call or text a friend. Go for a walk. Watch a favourite series. Read a book. The only problem is, those are all things I used to do with a drink in my hand. Doing them now just makes that hand feel very empty. 

The suggestion of a book, however, made me remember something - that library book I checked out the night Enjolras had gotten hurt was still sitting in that backpack. So at midnight, feeling jittery and just needing to move, I wandered out, pushed the books into the drop box with a bill and a note - 'Here's for my fine, if anything is left take it as a donation' - and after that, just wandering. For some reason, home just felt dangerous. Logically, it was one of the safest places I could have been. The gentle guardianship of Jehan, even asleep, and the comforting space that was guaranteed to be alcohol free.

But I suppose the night was calling to me. By 5 a.m. however, the only thing calling to me is the closed liquor store I know is just around the corner. It calls to me like a lover of years long past, whispering, begging, asking why I left her. Pleading with me, arms wide open. 

Except there are no arms when I finally move my tired feet to the storefront - just metal slats dyed a cool grey by the light blue hinting at the edges of the sky. Nothing open, just bottles behind bars. I shake my head and make my feet turn home.

\----  
I sleep until 3pm, when there's a buzzing under my head. Groggily, I roll over and fish under my pillow for my phone. My mouth mumbles a greeting.

"Did I wake you?" comes a voice I wasn't expecting. 

"Feuilly?" I rub at my tired eyes, trying to wake up . I had been sleeping heavily, especially since I never did get my eyes to close properly until well after sunrise. 

"That's me. I didn't mean to wake you." I know ze's thinking, _even if it's already past 3,_ because I'm thinking the same thing. But true to form, ze doesn't say a thing about that. "I just wanted to ask you something, but I can call back!"

With effort, I push myself into a sitting position and stifle a yawn into my shoulder. My head feels heavy; I must have been knocked out. I run my hand through my hair and am still surprised by the length and shape of it. I even roll my shoulders, and something in my back makes a very satisfying cracking sound. "Ask away, Fee."

There's a thump, and I hear a voice in the background; they must be borrowing someone's phone. I pull the phone away and see that it comes up as 'Atlas, Mover of Worlds' - so, Bahorel. "Well the thing is, I'm doing a kid's painting class for like, 7, 8, and 9-year-olds, and I wondering if you'd want to help, maybe? It's not paid well, or much at all, but Bahorel said I should ask you, and I thought it was a good idea! You're a great painter and a lot more kids signed up than I thought would. I really need the help."

Ah, good old Bahorel, never letting on that he is the mastermind behind this. "You know I'd love to; that sounds like a lot of fun. How'd you even end up with that?"

"Oh, a couple people who come into the book store for art supplies found out I do stuff like this, and they asked. I guess they help with the rec center programs. I couldn't say no..." Ze sounds tired, and I know ze takes a lot on, more than Joly and Enjolras put together. Even if I didn't paint, even if I hated painting more than anything in the world, I would never say no. "But it kind of grew out of my hands. You're a real life saver, I don't think I could do the whole class on my own."

"Well, there aren't any worries there; I'm in." I find a pen and scrawl the details of the class across my arm; I'll transfer it to something more permanent later on. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, starting in the beginning of the year. I can do that. Maybe Feuilly and I can do lunch before it or something. Even now I'm still worried that ze isn't getting enough to eat. Just as ze's about to hang up, I feel an urge clawing at my stomach. "Hey. Can I ask you something? Something unrelated to the class?"

"You know you can."

"I was just. Wondering about...how you did it. With the meth, and the..." I feel bad for bringing it up when they seem to be doing so well, now that I know how hard this is. But I guess I've already said it, so push on. "Withdrawal. The want. Does it ever...?"

"No." Ze sounds very far away. "It never really goes away. Sometimes I still wake up and want it. But...I know it might sound stupid now, because you feel like you don't want anything other than a drink, but you have to decide what you want more. A drink or a future. Not even something big like that. Do you want vodka or to see Gavroche's baseball game? Do you want gin, or do you want to take Éponine to get her first hormone shot? Wine or a walk with Cheese Curd in the morning? Do you want to be ABLE to make those choices? Do you want to be able to just...live your life freely? I guess I try to look at it like this - you're not making choices for your present self, you have to think about your future self."

I nod. It does sound stupid. But it also sounds incredibly smart. This is all so hard. "...thanks, Feuilly. I just. Need..."

"A support system. I know. Believe me, I know. It's okay if you feel like you can't do this on your own. Most people can't." This time, I can hear the smile on zir face. "But no one expects you to. If you need help from someone who gets it, get a hold of me, alright? Even if I can just remind you to do a favour for future Grantaire. I'm here for ya. I'll get you my schedule, I'm sorry I don't have a phone or anything."

"Don't worry about it. This means a lot as it is. I might have to take you up on it. Thank you, Feuilly. I'll talk to you soon, alright?" I sigh and flop back on my bed. "Love you, bud."

"Love you too, R."

I roll out of bed and into the shower. It's funny - just knowing that I have someone who knows what this is like, just having something in line to do with my time, it all does lift my spirits, just a little.

Halfway through the day, I text Éponine that I'll pick Gavroche up from school and feed him dinner, all that. I grab him and we go to the mall, just people watching and playing with puppies in the pet store that we know we can't get. It seems to be torture for him, but he's also having a great time. I bring him back to my apartment and settle in with a movie on my laptop in the kitchen while I try to teach him how to make ratatouille. Éponine is a fine cook, if you want one of four dishes; if Gavroche wants any chance of properly cooking for himself, it's up to me to prep him for that. We chop things side by side, and I wish that things would always be this easy. Maybe I should just marry Éponine like I keep threatening her with and raise Gavroche.

Éponine herself joins us, Jehan at her heels, just as I'm dishing up dinner. I tease them about their perfect timing, but that does not stop me from getting out extra bowls. Thanks to Jehan and their whims, none of our dishes match and are often kitschy. After all, Éponine is eating out of a bowl shaped like a fish while her brother has a bowl that suspiciously looks like it was taken from Jehan's favourite diner. I settle in once all the dishes are served, and it leaves our table very crowded. I love this. I try to burn this image into my brain, for later, when I'm miserable and thirsty and I can feel bile in my throat at the mere thought of making it through the night with a glass or bottle. Because this is it. This is what Feuilly was talking about. As much as I may want a drink, nothing in the world can make me feel more fulfilled, more satisfied, than moments like this. If I can just make it to moment to moment, always working towards the next time I can feel like this, the next family dinner, the next party, the next holiday...well then. Maybe I can find a way through the darkest moments.

After dinner, I'm banished from the kitchen while my friends clean up. Gavroche and I decide to take Cheese Curd out; he loves to romp in the snow, and even though there's only a little on the ground we go to the nearest park. I let Cheese Curd off of his leash and we all set off on a game of chase. It's nice to move again. I could work out at the center, and there was someone I played basketball with, but since leaving that sort of thing has sort of fallen off to the wayside. I should get back into it. Give myself a distraction like I'm supposed to. And I don't want to lose anymore muscle mass, not if I'm going to keep up with the boxing. Which I do really want to do; getting into that ring is a high like no other. Plus, I can make money that way. So the three of us basically have the park to ourselves and we take advantage of it to tear the place apart. It's wet and muddy, and I know that a bath is in line for all of us tonight. Nether Gavroche nor Cheese Curd will like that, but at least Cheese Curd I can lure into the bath with treats. How Éponine will get Gavroche into the shower is beyond me - for as long as I've known him, the kid has hated to get clean. Indeed, by the time we reach my floor, we're all muddy and soaked. We're laughing and Cheese Curd is barking up a storm as we approach the apartment.

Which is why none of us heard the shouting until I opened the door.

"Babying him, Jehan!" Éponine is shouting. I see shadows moving, and the familiar slam and shaking of the fridge door being shut too roughly. Stepping forward, I shove Gavroche behind me. But Éponine is still shouting, in her rough, powerful way. "HIS problems aren't about YOU! He's not some...some fucking baby doll! He's no here to cry when you feeling like you fucking taking care of him!"

"Wh-where are you getting this? I CARE about him, Éponine! He's my best fried, I'm just trying to HELP him! I don't know WHAT you think I am, but - "

"No! I want to know what YOU think you are! Are you his _mommy?_ Are you his fucking nurse? NO! I think you LIKED it when he was drunk! You LOVE having someone to take care of! All of that CRYING over him, right in front of him?! I know, Jehan, I KNOW what that's for! Making it about YOURSELF, not HIM, like a fucking MARTYR!" Something else slams, maybe a pan into the sink, or on the counter.

Gavroche tenses behind me, and I turn to see him standing still, jaw clenched, eyes wide, and hand in a vice grip around Cheese Curd's collar. The dog is sniffing at his side, ears down. To the backdrop of Jehan's shrieks about how Éponine dare say things like that, that she has no clue what she's talking about, I crouch. "Hey, Gavroche, it's okay. It's alright."

He steps closer to me, looking for all the world like the terrified 6 year old he was when we met. His entire life up until this last year was yelling and pain and misery that he's usually fantastic at hiding. And he shouldn't have to hide it. I squeeze his shoulder and send him into my room with Cheese Curd, tell him to turn the TV on. "Just stay in here a while, alright? Until one of us comes to get you." It's a sign of how unhappy he is that Gavroche listens right away. "Cheese Curd, guard."

Merely my presence in the kitchen doorway stops the fight. Both Éponine and Jehan are red-faced when they face me. "Stop," I say, voice deep. "I don't need the two of you fighting over me, and Gavroche doesn't need the fighting at all."

"I'm just telling them what I told you." An angry Éponine as a dangerous thing, and I know the emotion will not fade quickly. "That they think they're some grand sufferer deserving PRAISE for taking care of you-"

"And I never agreed with you. Jehan has done nothing but help me, 'Ponine, just like you." I step closer, draw her from Jehan. "I think you're taking this a little personally. I know this is a touchy thing with you."

She glares at me and slaps my hand away, but I can tell she's thinking the same thing I am - that she spent her childhood taking care of her drunken parents, being a mother to her siblings, with no gratitude, to grand gestures for all of her work done. And she's right; Jehan does get a lot of attention for helping me, for taking care of me. Of course it bothers her, grates on her; I wish I had noticed it before. I hear my therapist asking me why I feel like it was my responsibility to notice, but shake her away. But something softens in Éponine, and she lets me kiss her forehead. "I know you were just trying to help. It means a lot."

"I should go get Gavroche." She brushes past me, and I turn my gaze to Jehan.

They've fallen into a chair, head dropped back. Swirled red and green hair tumbles loose behind them, curling and twisting every which way. But their eyes watch me from behind dirty glasses and they mumble an apology. I shrug it off and sit next to them. It's quiet for a moment, just the sounds of the TV from my bedroom, muffled behind the door Éponine just shut. Jehan is leaning back; I bend forward to rest my elbows on the table. I've always hated that they took care of me, but I never thought that they were doing it for themself. That's not like them. I shake my head and look over; they're still watching me.

"I never..." they start, then cover their eyes with a hand. "I just wanted to help you."

They sound exhausted; Jehan gets just as angry as Éponine. "And you always have. She's hurting. Her situation was different than yours. She sees you doing what she did, and getting praise for it."

"And meanwhile no one cared if she did..." They push themself up. "I'm an idiot. I'm going to go talk to her and apologize to Gavroche."

I just sit in the kitchen, Oscar winding his way through my mud-splattered ankles. As long as there is no yelling, I will not move, and thankfully no yelling comes. Just, eventually, the opening of my door and Cheese Curd's nails on the floor as he bolts for his food bowl. Then quiet voices as they follow. Éponine is taking Gavroche home, but at least she leaves with a hug from Jehan. Once they leave, I drag Cheese into the tub to get him clean, followed by doing the same for myself, then cleaning up any mud we've dragged into the house.

When I finally fall onto the couch next to Jehan, who's sewing a button onto something, it's with my phone in hand. I need to find at least a part time job, so I tap the screen and just see what's out there. The silence this time is comfortable and soft. They turn a little, so their back is pressed to my shoulder and their feet are on the couch arm. We both keep working, even though I'm not even sure what I'm looking for, jobwise. I could try to go back to dogwalking, but I'm not sure. New haircut, new life...new job? I'm not sure. I suppose it all falls to what I find. I don't think I have it in me for resume crafting or cover letter writing. So for now I'll just browse. Maybe ask around my usual haunts, as if we were back in 1994 or something. I don't know. I keep my eyes trained on my phone as I scroll through, bookmark a couple things.

I hardly notice that Jehan's stopped their sewing until their hand comes to rest on mine, halting my search. "Come here," they whisper. They pull me down just to lay, cuddled on the couch. 

"Won't Combeferre be jealous if he sees us?" I ask, mostly teasing. We both know that Combeferre is possibly the most mellow being on this plain for existence. Even when he's riled up, leading slogans at protests or taking the floor at meetings, there's always something in the man that reeks of an inner peace and calm most human beings can only dream of.

"We're just laying, and he told me that he knew what he was getting into when this started. You know how touchy-feely I am, and so does he." It's true; Jehan is the most physically affectionate person that I have ever met. "And I need it right now."

There's only a little shuffling and settling until we're laying on the couch, but of us on our sides, them halfway on top of me; this couch is not meant for a man my size. I wrap an arm around them and drop my head back. "Something you want to talk about?"

"You," is their unsurprising answer.

"Everything's been about me lately."

"Well, what would you expect?" They reach up and stroke my hair. "But alright. Less just about you, and more about us. You and I, our relationship. I think Éponine was right, a little. I do like taking care of you. I don't like it when you're hurting, but I do like being there for you."

I kiss their forehead. "I don't think that says anything negative about you. I think it's very much in line with your personality."

"Are you sure? I'm not...babying you?"

"No." But then, I pause. I don't want to tell them that they ARE, because it's not true. I have noted, though, how quickly they run to my rescue, even for the smallest things. I was always sort of flattered by it, semi-honored by the attention. Now? Maybe it's part of why I'm so unwilling to care for myself. Maybe even unable. I blow air out through my lips. "Maybe...maybe a little. Maybe I could stand to have to take care of myself.

"Grantaire should know how to take care of Grantaire, shouldn't he?"

Jehan looks up at me with a pained expression. But they swallow and their face hardens into that determination I know so well, then nod. "Alright. Anything you say, alright? I'll try to not butt in so much, I never meant to do anything like that. Just...don't be afraid to tell me when you DO need my help, alright?"

"I promise, angel." There will always be things I need Jehan for. No matter what happens, what relationships come and go between us, Jehan was always my dear and always will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is coming up in JUST a few moments!


	18. Ch. 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: severe naughtiness and nakedness abound in this chapter.
> 
> This is also the final chapter. I have the epilogue left, but for now, thank you all so much.

It's pleasant to be at the Les Amis meeting that next day. Things are mostly quiet, with everyone but me busy working on fliers and information packets for a small rally while Courf makes the necessary phone calls to get their event cleared. I have my own sketchbook, as usual, and am using the time to doodle a bit. My designated corner has been left to me as everyone is so wrapped up in their own projects; that's fine by me. I am still happy just to be with my friends.

And to be with Enjolras. Even just being in the same room as him is thrilling. Our eyes keep meeting. He keeps sending me smiles, and once, a text with just a simple <3\. I screenshot it and email it to myself. Just a few pixelated symbols make my heart jump out of my chest. Part of me wonders if I'm not dreaming, if my mind isn't making all of this up. But the text is right here, and those smiles are only across the room. We danced. We kissed. It's him that I'm drawing, with his wild eyes and jaw set in determination. Even when he's smiling, his incomparable beauty that goes beyond every metaphor the human brain can conjure. He is perfection personified. He is the living sun.

And, lord on high, he's set his sights on me.

I try not to feel nervous as he waves me over, once the meeting winds down. Soon enough he'll be able to move his arm, though I'm not sure if he'll have enough strength to use crutches. At least he'll be able to wheel the chair a little. But for now and for always, I'll go to him.

He's sitting alone at the table, and I sit next to him. He takes my hand under the table and watches me from the corner of his eye, and there is something in his eye I have never seen, something I cannot name no matter how I think on it. "Are you busy Friday night?"

"Not at all." My heart is pounding and my throat dry.

"Come over for dinner."

"So we can talk...?" I might vomit; I might not make it to Friday night at all.

"I would like that." He squeezes my hand, and I return the gesture.

"I'll be there."

\----

New Message from Apollo, 11:25 am  
'What do you want to get for dinner tonight?'

New Message from Apollo, 12:03 pm  
'We don't have to decide right now.'

New Message from Apollo, 12:15 pm  
'We'll probably be late, you should bring a change of clothes.'

New Message from Apollo, 12: 18 pm  
'Not that I mean I have anything planned, not like that.'

New Message from Apollo, 12:23 pm  
'Grantaire?'

New Message from R, 12:47 pm  
'take a breath, e. we'll talk after your classes.'

New Message from R, 12:50 pm  
'just breathe'

I can hardly believe that he seems so nervous. I know that he gets nervous, like everyone, but I have never seen it. I find it charming, not that such a thing would come as any sort of surprise. I just can't help it; I'm honored that the man I love so thinks I'm worth getting all flustered over. I'm sort of glad I've been without a drink for for over sixty days.

And it's not even his affection that makes me proud. It's that, without the drinks, I feel deserving. I feel deserving, even just a little bit, of being worthy of making someone nervous to be around me, because of how much they like me. It does not quench my thirst, but it makes it a little more bearable.

Friday, I managed to make the day pass. Bahorel and I went to the gym - him spending the time talking of maybe becoming a personal trainer, and sneaking a sniff of my water bottle when he thinks I'm not looking - and then painting a little. I'm starting maybe a portrait series of my friends, like that blonde girl in Harry Potter, just not on my ceiling. First is Éponine, and she's taking form in blues and purples on my canvas. A little softer than she is in real life, perhaps, but no less fire in her eyes. It's a small portrait and I'm eager to see what she thinks of it. Gavroche might be next - something bright and light-hearted for a change. No matter how you view 'Ponine, I think that if you know her and where she came from, you'll always be able to see some sadness in her gaze, in the whorls of her thumbprints, in the way she breathes. Hopefully I can capture that without offending her, or worse - making her feel badly.

As I tidy up the mess that is always encroaching in some way in the rest of my bedroom - clean off the brushes, roll up the tarp, and set my wet canvas where not even Oscar will be able to reach it - I am eager, excited, terrified...for something I would also rather never do. What will happen? He feels for me. That still sends a tickling thrill up my spine: Enjolras has feelings for me.

I do wonder why he never acted on them until after I left the center. There was that one kiss, but that doesn't count. Was he waiting for me to help myself? No matter what the voice in my head hisses, it's not like Enjolras to wait until I was sober for his own gain. If he was waiting, he would wait for me to grow into myself. That's the sort of man he is. But if he was waiting, for how long? How long have we been been pining for each other? The idea that he knows I've wanted him so badly for long, returned the sentiment, and did nothing hurts me. I never hid it, not from anybody; I never could. Surely he could not be completely unaware of the way my heart beats for him.

I don't have answers for anything. I don't know how powerful his feelings are for me, how long he's harbored them, or maybe even how true they are. I have never doubted his intentions before, and I have no wish to start now. Then again, his intentions before have so rarely been towards me. Everything is different now. My life has becoming an overwhelming downpour of changes. Private changes, public changes, finished changes and changes that are still bubbling, boiling, ready to emerge as things I have never once considered, and I have no clue what will come of them.

There is only one way to find out. It's dangeous for me to just sit here and ponder.

The trip to Enjolras' place is simultaneously the longest and shortest journey that I have ever taken. I stop by Jehan's shop and buy a small bouquet. A red camellia surrounded by heliotrope and baby's breath, nestled in a bed of garden sage dotted with canary grass, crafted by loving hands. As I stare at it, bouncing in my lap on the train, I think perhaps it was a mistake. Maybe it's foolish and hopeful; maybe he'll see it as too feminine a gift. But I can't just get rid of it, not after Jehan made it the moment I came in, no questions asked. Not that Jehan has ever questioned me.

So when I knock on the door, it is with one hand clutching the bouquet; hearing his voice calling out 'come in,' sends my heart soaring and my stomach flip flopping. When I come in, he's on the couch, his leg stretched out to rest on the coffee table.

"How'd you get there?" I asked, shutting the door behind me. Oh, he's beautiful. His hair is swept over to the side, cascading over left shoulder, he's wearing an argyle sweater that I've always loved, and he just looks warm.

"Bossuet and Chetta just left about ten minutes ago...but you know, I've figured out how to at least shift myself from the chair to the couch. I am not completely incapable." I notice how, even injured, he's keeping up his impeccable posture - he must be feeling better for sure. I think of him that day he came to visit, months ago, after the incident that I feel really started this. Save for the cast, and sling, he looks the same, his eyes sharp, jaw hard. That strikes me as a negative sign. But then he looks at the bouquet, and his eyes soften into a question. "Is that...?"

"For you, yeah," I chuckle, bashfully rubbing the back of my head. "And a little stupid, maybe, but - "

"No. I love them." He holds his hand out and I settle on his left, nestling the bouquet into his palm. He touches the camellia, then looks at the wrapping. "I could tell Jehan's handiwork anywhere."

I nod - even just a bouquet holds a certain essential Jehan-ness that cannot be denied. "Especially for you, Apollo. Should I have brought a sunflower?"

Though, perhaps I am the sunflower, a scruffy, bruised Clytie turning my face to the sky, staying rooted in the same place, waiting for a glimpse of Helios. Except I am finally digging my roots from the dirt, kicking off soil and learning to be a garden in my own right.

He nudges me with his elbow. "Stop."

Yet he does ask me to put them in water. I grab his laptop on the way back, and we settle in to decide what to order for dinner. The awkwardness is between us, lingering, winding its way through the molecules between our arms. The talk will happen, but we should wait until we won't be interrupted.

We order our dinner, and in moving the laptop I look to see his cast, which honestly I haven't paid much attention to, covered in signatures and drawings in various degrees of skill. "Who drew the anime girl?"

"Pontmercy. He said she's a nurse. Which made Bossuet ask if it was Joly." He points to where someone has circled Joly's signature and drawn an arrow from the circle to the nurse. The whole cast is a testament to our friends - except for the top of the cat, right below his knee, where a spot has been left. Underneath the spot, someone - I assume Courf by the handwriting - has drawn a little plaque "engraved" with 'by H. Grantaire.'

Enjolras pats the section. "Left for you."

"Can I do something there now?" I don't know for how much longer he'll have the cast, so I want to make my mark.

"Of course." At his agreement, I go to find the collection of Sharpies I know he has in his kitchen drawer. According to Combeferre, Enjolras had a teenage obsession with the markers that he never quite grew out of. So that means when I flop back onto the couch, sitting sideways, I have a vast array of colors to choose from. I take up a red first, and get to work. Then an orange, a yellow, a scribble of pink, a few smears of purple.

Enjolras jostles me a bit, trying to get a look past my arm. "What are you doing?"

"Don't move so much, I'll ruin it." I take up a gray, a few curves. When I lift my hand, he grabs my arm to move it out of the way.

"...birds on a sunset?"

"Correct. May I have my hand?" He drops my arm and I pick up the thickest black marker in the pile. Alternating between that marker, a regular sized Sharpie, and a fine tip, all in black, I craft a elegant calligraphy 'R,' looping and curling over his shin. "There!"

He shakes his head in amazement. "I have no clue how you do that."

"You only say that because your handwriting is atrocious and your art skills are even worse." I wink at him and he shoves my arm.

"That's why I type and speak instead. My skills are much more apparent when my mouth is open." He's giving me that calculating look that I have finally learned is not as cruel as it seems.

And with the words that just came out of his mouth, it's good that he's not cruel. Because I cannot stop laughing. "Ah, yes!" I cry, clapping a hand to my chest. "Forgive me! I forget how good you are with your tongue! Let me bow down to the king of oral!"

He blanches, than gathers himself up, sets his shoulders. "Excuse me. I am not the the king of oral. I am the democratically elected head of oral."

This his phone doorbell rings, and I am left to gather our dinner from the delivery person while trying to control my laughter. Dirty jokes are not often in Enjolras' arsenal of humor but maybe they should be, because by the time we sit at the table to eat, I'm still trying to catch my breath. That was classic.

We eat in comfortable conversation, about his finals, about my upcoming gig with Feuilly, about our friends. But I feel it under the surface, threatening to spill over with every word, every laugh. I want to ask, I want to just jumpstart the conversation; yet I also love the ease of this, I love as we are, chatting and scraping utensils against tin or styrofoam. I love how it feels to be sharing things with Enjolras, instead of watching from the outside. If you ask me, this conversation can last for as long as possible, this meal never has to end. It's far too pleasant for me to want the mood to fall, to switch to serious topics. Were we anyone else, perhaps this could happen naturally.

Natural is not us. Enjolras forces change, and I will support him in his ventures at least with this.

When we move to the couch once more, TV off, I know that it's time. He sits in one corner of the couch, I in the other. Things are quiet for a very short time, until he clears his throat. Always to business with Enjolras; no lolly-gagging about will be stood for. "So. Well...I like you, Grantaire. More than that. I am...infatuated with you."

"You...?" The words confuse me still, even after he's proven them. "I have to admit, that's never anything I expected to hear from you."

His brows rise into curls. "Really? All this time I thought I was doing a miserable job of hiding it."

I look into his eyes, flabbergasted. "...All this time? How long has 'all this time' been?"

"A year or so, maybe." He shrugs, but looks away, and I think he's embarrassed. 

I cannot wrap my head around it. Enjolras has been wandering around for a year, feeling things for me. Liking me. He truly wants me, and has for a year. I can't help but beam. "You should try three. It gets be a little overwhelming."

"...three?" He meets my eyes. "You have not."

"I have. Since the day we met, Enjolras, since the very moment Jehan dragged me into that first meeting." I reach over the expanse of couch between us, stroke his shoulder. "I've been waiting a long time for this."

He shakes his head, fluffing his hair up; it only settles when he's still once more. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"How could I?" I say with a laugh more bitter than I meant. "You were so busy, and never acted as if you liked me much."

Enjolras curls his hand tightly in his hand. "Well to be fair, you only ever tried speaking to me while I was in the middle of something."

"Well. I have to give you that." I move my hand up to cup his cheek. "But don't you know why? You're so enchanting when you're so riled up; I just wanted to be part of it. And then as I got to know you, got to see you in casual occasions, I noticed that you're constantly enchanting. I've seen you any number of ways now, and the spell doesn't break."

"I always assumed you just thought I was being ridiculous and wanted to distract from the rest of the meeting." I shrug. "And I know I wasn't the kindest, even after I realized how I felt for you. That's on me. I...was having a hard time keeping it to myself, so the only thing I could do was act in the opposite manner. I'm so sorry. And honestly, once I knew how much you meant to me, I started to get nervous around you. I was worried that you could tell."

I chuckle and stroke my thumb over his cheek. "So you were afraid that the man who was openly in love with you, would find out that you liked him?"

"Grantaire," he says, shifting as best he can to face me. "I had no idea it went that deep. I knew that you liked me, but not so passionately, not for so long."

"I never hid it!" We're both chuckling at how silly it all sounds now, and that soothes my nerves. It's nice to be able to laugh even about something that means as much to me as this does. I scoot closer, so I'm sitting in the middle section of the couch. Looking at his lips reminds me of something that he must know. "Right before I went into the center...I did find out that you knew I like you."

"Was it Courfeyrac?" A hint of danger flashes in his eyes.

"No, no. You told me. You were flying very high on your medication right after the accident, and. Uhm, you don't happen to remember this at all, do you?" I drop my hand from his face, and it rests between us. He shakes his head, curiosity in his eyes. "Well, I was here to help you get around, and we got into a fight. But then your meds kicked in, you apologized to me, for when you said that you, ah, didn't need me. And then you kissed me."

He backs away a little, even though there's really nowhere for him to go. "I...I don't remember any of that at all."

"That's not a surprise. You were really far gone. I stopped you, and I have to tell you, you cried and I felt like a real asshole. But I mean, what was I going to do? It's not like me to let something like that go on."

"No," he says, leaning back towards me. "It's not."

Our lips meet in a kiss, our tongues. We only kiss for a moment, and it's hard to pull away, but we both know that we have to get through this. He looks at me through half-lidded eyes. "I want to be your boyfriend, Grantaire," Enjolras mumbles. "I want that very badly."

"I want to be yours..." One more kiss; how can I resist? "But you're right. I'm not ready. I'm still learning how to be my own person. I'm healing."

"And I never want to risk that. I want to be here for your hard times, though. I want you to go through this knowing that someone feels this way towards you, that someone sees romance in every move you make." He takes my hand again. "That someone will wait for you."

I can't stop my face from forming a smile. Maybe some people would be disappointed; I am thrilled to my core. "What about you? Is this okay by you...?"

"It is. I'm still learning things about myself, and I've been told in the past that I'm not the best at romantic relationships. So let's take some time to wait. We can work on ourselves, alright? Be there for each other, of course, but let us move towards our own identities."

"But take some time just for us." I nod. It's something we both probably need. I've waited this long; a little longer won't kill me, even though my heart screams that it just might. "Can we...low-key date until then? Casual dinners, movie nights?"

"That sounds like a wonderful idea." He kisses me again, and I close the last of the space between us to hold him. "We'll check in this time next month, alright? The 12th of January. Does that sound alright?"

My answer is another kiss; I am unable to get enough, and before our waiting period starts, I want as much as I can possibly get. "Perfect. But maybe the. Well."

He wraps an arm around me. "Maybe our wait period can start tomorrow?"

"You took the words right out of my mouth."

"What a coincidence; it's your mouth I'm interested in." 

The kisses now are nothing like before. I press my tongue between his lips and he tilts his head back just enough to draw me in, perfect our angle. The smallest sound comes from his arched throat as I nibble his bottom lip, and the idea of getting him to make that sound louder invades my mind. His hand finds an anchor in my hair, keeping our faces pressed together, taking charge of the kiss even from below me. Enjolras moves his kiss to the corner of my mouth, and gently urges my head to the side so he can trail hot kisses over my neck, across to my ear. My body trembles as he takes the lobe of my ear between his teeth, and a soft grunt escapes my lips.

I ache to keep my eyes open, to see him touch me, kiss me; pleasure commands them to close. Yet my mouth opens in a gasp as he kisses back down my throat, then pulls my hood aside. His teeth scrape against my collar bone, and with each movement of his mouth, I know he's leaving a mark on me. I want to be covered in them. And when he comes up for air, I am very quick to return the favour. His skin is intoxicating, so delicious that I wonder, briefly, what I ever saw in a bottle. 

I lean over him, and my attentions set him writhing in ways even my dreams could never capture. When his hand releases my hair just to sneak up up the back of my hoodie and shirt, to stroke needy patterns into my skin, I jump. Our bodies press together and I am as careful of his arm as possible. But with his lips on mine and coating my skin, his hand cupping my shoulder blade, I can only concentrate on each burning, tingling point of contact. I need more of it, need to touch him, have our skin meet.

My hand comes to rest on his hip, fingers just under the him of his shirt. "That okay?"

He mumbles a yes and pulls me back into the kiss. I don't want to touch him in anyway that makes him uncomfortable, and I don't know what's okay and what isn't. This will be quite the learning experience, no matter what this particular night amounts to. His own hand slides around to my front, and I give him a nod when he rests his palm over my chest.

My breath hitches in my chest when his thumb grazes my nipple. Daring a bit, I move my hand up over the curve of his hip, the curve I pretend not to feel. He nods this time, and I let my short nails dig into his soft skin as his thumb runs in circles around my nipple. The attention, the kisses, are putting me in danger of getting overly excited, but we'll stop when it gets to that point if it's not the ideal moment. I tug my hoodie off, leaving me in my darkest purple shirt, v-neck; Enjolras immediately takes advantage of that to lick his way down one side of the v and up the other. 

"I like this shirt," he mutters. Without the hoodie, it's easier for him to move his hand over to the other side of my chest, caress that nipple as he's done the other. It's driving me crazy, sending fire shooting through my veins. 

"I'll wear it all the time." I let my teeth play over his ear, over flesh and metal, my face buried in his hair. He moans, low and wild, as I run my tongue along the shell of his ear, and when I suck on the lobe, I feel him shift, his hips moving back and forth.

He squeezes my nipple gently. "C-careful, you're doing all sorts of things to me like that."

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask, pausing my motions but not pulling away quite yet.

"No," he whispers. "I want you to take me into the bedroom if you're going to keep doing that."

I waste no time, don't even bother with the chair; I just scoop him into my arms and bring him into the bedroom. The couch was fine by me for anything that might happen, but the bed is more romantic and is much more comfortable for his leg. He sheds his sweater, leaving him in a soft white t-shirt. "You're the sexiest thing I've ever seen."

"Shut up and get over here," Enjolras says with a smile; he likes it. I would never deny him, especially not with his lips swollen from kisses and his hair a mess from the way I keep running my hands through it. I join him on the bed and he pulls me down over him, laying us in the center, me supporting my weight over him.

My lips find his ear, the one I had not made my way to earlier. The sounds he makes are all I ever want to hear. His hand plays over my back again, then slips down to surprise me with a squeeze, right on my ass. I laugh into his ear. He does it again, mumbles, "I've wanted to do that for ages."

He's going to get me hard with all of his touches and the way he's talking; then he throws his right leg over my hip, and it immediately becomes inevitable.

"I'm n-not gonna be able to handle this," I whisper to him. 

Then it's his turn to ask if I want to stop; when I give him the quickest negative in human history, he growls in approval and pulls me closer to him with his leg. Our mouths find each other again and I buck my hips against him. It must be the packer I feel, that I rut against, that my erection presses against. I'm as hard as I've ever been in no time, and the sounds he makes are not helping.

I was wondering how much he could feel, between myself, our clothes, the packer, but when he grabs my hair and whispers 'harder,' I know that whatever he can feel, he's loving. Our hips nearly gyrate against each other, our breath mixing, our sounds mingling in the air. 

"C-can you feel how hard you've gotten me?" I groan into his ear. 

He responds with a slight moan of his own, then mumbles for me to stop. I pause my motions, and he turns his head to look into my eyes. "Do you want...to feel how hard _you've_ gotten _me_?"

I'm going to buy a loto ticket after this, because I am the luckiest man on Earth. I kiss him, more comforting than needy now. "Are you sure?"

He nods, and I am not a man to question a good thing. It's a bit of a struggle to pull those sweats off of him, but we do find out that we can laugh during sex without ruining the mood. I stop at his boxers briefs. I'll let Enjolras do that at his own pace. I watch him with reverence as he sits a little, tugs the band lower on his hip. He slips his right leg out of the undergarment, and I am treated with the sight of a century when he just flips his boxers, packer and all, over the over thigh without really taking them off. A neat brushing of hair between smooth thighs. I could just look at him forever, but I don't want to make him uncomfortable. Anyways, I have something much more fun in mind.

"Fuck. Look at you. Can I...?" 

"I w-want you to touch my cock..." Enjolras moans, and a jolt of electricity surges through my body. 

First I take his hand, telling him to just let me know if I should stop. But my other hand, I gently set on that neat hair. He's so warm that I can hardly take it. I turn my hand so my fingers are pointing back towards me as I straddle his uninjured leg. Moving carefully, I slip my hand down to just cup him. Enjolras whines a little and grinds himself against my palm. I'll never forget the feeling. I tell him again how sexy he is, and he turns the leg under me, giving my hand a little more space. I press just my middle finger against him until I touch slick skin. He jumps, but it must be in pleasure, because he doesn't tell me to stop. Moving my whole hand, I slide my finger upwards, back towards his waistline. Nestled in curls, my finger finally meets something I've only dreamed of. Enjolras' cock is taught and warm against my finger, and the way he cries out at just the most gentle of touches is too much for me.

"Lucien," I whisper. I bring my hand away enough to lick the length of my finger, then bring it back down to slowly circle his hardness. His body jumps, but his eyes remain on mine. "I want to taste you. Let me suck your cock."

His mouth falls open at my touches. "God...I want you to, p-please."

"Anything for you." I move to the end of the bed to crouch, leaving my head just at his hips. I kiss a hip bone, and have him bend his leg. This is something I've wanted for a long time, so I make a project of kissing his thighs and just above his pubic bone until he's trembling beneath me. We should probably be safer, but I know Enjolras insists on regular tests, and I know for a fact we're both clean. Next time, we can be safe, unless he says something.

With great care, I lower my head, press my tongue directly between his legs. If the skin of his neck tastes so addicting, this is an instant hook. He's breathing heavily as I drag my tongue up until it's flat against the bulge of his cock. His hips buck towards me, and his apology is lost to the wind. I just hook my arm around his thigh.

It's been a while since I've done this, but it's not something one forgets. I give him a few long strokes with my tongue before switching to shorter touches. I must hit a spot he likes, because he cries my name and drives his foot into my back. Enjolras grips my hair in a tight fist, and I give him what he wants. All of my efforts fall to that stop, just to the bottom left, and I drop my thumb to rub against anything my tongue is not hitting.

"F-fuck, just like that," he calls out, voice strained. "Keep going, G-Grantaire...Hercule, please, right there...I love your mouth on my cock, oh GOD.." Enjolras' words lose all structure, giving way to gasps and moans as his entire body tenses. I can _feel_ his toes curl against my back. My mouth does not stop until there's a sudden release of that tension, until his leg falls limp and that hand drops from my hair.

I raise my head carefully, wanting to see him in the after glow. His eyes meet mine. Enjolras' jaw in slack in pleasure, gaze unfocused, face gleaming. I use the shoulder of my shirt to wipe my face, but never look way from his glory. He reaches for me, and I climb over him. I gather him in my arms, and he nuzzles close to me. He just lays, recovering, and I am very content to just stroke his hair. After a few minutes, he laughs into my collarbone. "I...I am most certainly not the demo...democratically elected head of oral. That...that goes to you..."

That makes me join in the laughter. "That's an office I might be willing to take." 

"You're amazing." He kisses me, not caring where my mouth just was. "Just...just wonderful. Is there anything I can do for you?"

His hand is already wandering towards my fly. "I wouldn't say no if you kept that up..."

Enjolras fumbles with the fly of my jeans, but is eager to slide his hand into the band of my boxers once he's able. Between his kisses and his touches, I'm fully hard again in no time. I can hardly believe that it's Enjolras pulling my erection out of my pants, even as I melt into the bed. He trails his fingers up and down the shaft, and I whine when he pulls away. 

"Patience," he whispers. He rolls a little and opens the nightstand drawer. When Enjolras rolls back over his hand is glistening; any other time I would have found it funny that Enjolras keeps lube in his nightstand just like anyone else. It's cool on my skin, but makes each stroke the much more pleasurable. 

I keep my eyes on him as he moves his hand slowly over my cock, unable to decide if I want to watch the show or look into his eyes. When he picks up speed and starts to twist his hand at each approach to the head, I have no choice; I squeeze my eyes shut. "Holy shit, Enjolras, th-that's perfect...god, yes, d-don't stop, don't stop...!"

My orgasm is loud and heavy, expletives coming out of my mouth that would make a sailor cry. I want to stay pressed to his side, but my body is no longer my own. His bed calls, and I flop against it; when did I prop myself up? Enjolras moves his hand and my eyes follow the motion. He swipes his hand through the mess I've made on his stomach, then carefully licks each finger clean. I shudder, knowing that I'll see that sight every time I close my eyes for the rest of my life.

"That was....that was incredible..." We kiss again; if he doesn't mind, I don't either. He agrees, and we just lay in quiet bliss. After near 10 minutes of just dozing, I get up and return with warm wash clothes for clean up. I change into my pajamas and help Enjolras into his. 

We turn the TV on and worm our way under the covers, sitting up against the headboard. He's cuddled up to my side, my arm around his shoulders. Everything is warm, and quiet, and perfect. I just want to stay this way forever. We may have a lot coming for us, but I have never in my life felt closer to another human being. I am happy, truly happy. I know that struggles wait for me, wait for him, but if sitting in bed chatting night after night with Enjolras like this is my future, then I will jump any and all hurdles leading up to it.

"Grantaire?" he asks quietly.

"Yes, Apollo?"

He nuzzled his head into my shoulder. "What do you think will happen to us? As a...whatever we are? A pre-couple."

"I don't know. I wish I did, but no one ever knows what the future will hold." I think of Jehan and Combeferre, suddenly so happy. Marius and Cosette sharing their cultures with each other. Whatever I suspect is happening between Feuilly and Bahorel. All of our friend who will support us, when we choose to tell them. The best support system anyone could ask for. I think of all I've already done, all of the shit I've already mucked through, the trail of blood, tears, and broken glass behind me. And I try to picture a clean, neat future, a cobblestone path that just leads to happiness. "But whatever it is, we can handle it. As long as we have each others back, I think we can handle anything this life throws at us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was tired of every e/R fic on here with one of them being trans not using 'cock' when talking about the trans characters genitals, because I'm trans and that's what I like. So you won't find any of that in my fics. :I
> 
> Also thanks to everyone who commented on my tumblr post about Enjolras being the king of oral sex - those jokes about him not being a king but an elected official were too good to pass up.


	19. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. Thank you all SO much for reading, and for all of your support. This was quite a journey for me, and I'm sad to see it go.

Tuesday, January 12th, 2016

I sit at the back booth in the diner that has become our spot. People come in and out, passing me on their way to the back door or the bathroom, but I only have eyes for one person. He'll be here soon enough. 

When I see that red jacket and those wild curls, that wheelchair, pushed along not be an extra person but by the person inside of it, I smile and stand up. I'm nervous, but excited. "Hey." 

"Hey." I sit, and he moves himself up to the table. He kisses me on the cheek. A couple of weeks and he should be able to switch to crutches all the time; he uses them around the house now, but they aren't great for moving around the city. "Have you been waiting long?" 

"No, I just got here." I reach out and hold onto his hand. 

"Good..." Enjolras gives me a smile that is more precious than most of his smiles, because it is meant just for me. "It's been a month." 

I sigh. "I know. I can hardly believe it. Where'd the time go?" 

To everyone being on break, to class with Feuilly, to Enjolras' protests, to my new job at the gym (and a free membership thanks to it). To spending time on the phone, online, in person with Enjolras. To one relapse that left me drunk and sobbing into his lap. To the looming threat of another, to Enjolras learning how to pull himself away from his work. 

He shrugs, then brings my hand to his mouth. "I think we've been doing a wonderful job." 

"Me too." It was a relief to get that relapse out of the way, honestly, and no one will let me feel guilty about it. Least of all the man holding my hand. "Are we...there yet?" 

He leans over and kisses my lips. Our first mouth to mouth kiss in public. "Is that really how you ask someone to be your boyfriend?" 

My heart skips a beat. "...did it work?" 

Enjolras kisses me again. His touches, his kisses, his affection - it has not lost any of it's thrill. "I think it did, Grantaire. I would love to be your boyfriend." 

My shout of joy draws the attention of every person in the diner. I leap out of my seat only to bend down and throw my arms around him. I love that they're looking. Enjolras and I, official at last. I don't know what it means, I don't know how we even differentiate official from whatever we were before. But he's said yes, and I want everyone to know just how good things are. 


End file.
